Mrs. Owl's Soup: A Story for Kids
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This is Ria. Welcome to Little Stories for Tiny People. Our story today is about something I've never done and know nothing about. Me? Experiment in the kitchen? Not use a recipe? I don't know what you're talking about. Let's get to it. It's called Mrs. Owl's Soup.

Take it away, Ava. Remember, there are no pixels. You have to imagine the pixels in your mind. You can imagine the pixels however you want. Okay, here we go.

Mr. and Mrs. Owl returned home after a successful hunt just before dawn. As soon as they crossed the threshold of their treehouse, which was cozy despite the chill in the forest, Mr. Owl made a beeline for his hammock in the next room. Mr. Owl said,

"'Good morning, dear.' "'Good morning,' Mrs. Owl replied, but instead of heading to her own hammock, she lingered in the entryway."

Mrs. Owl was a spontaneous, imaginative sort of bird. That was partly what made her an excellent hunter. She'd have ideas come to her from who knew where, and she wasn't against acting upon them, even if it meant changing plans at the very last minute. Mr. Owl playfully called them her flights of whimsy, and she was a great hunter.

but generally went along with them if they weren't too off the wall. As she stood in the entryway, dawn breaking outside, sleep beckoning inside, Mrs. Owl was seized by one of her spontaneous ideas.

She made an effort to reason with herself. It would take hours, most of the day. She imagined Mr. Owl's assessment of her idea. You should get some sleep, dear. But he had nothing to say at the moment. She now felt much too keyed up to sleep. Though she could see the sun rising through the only window of the treehouse...

It was a half-hearted effort, this business of talking herself out of her idea. Deep down, Mrs. Owl knew. Immediately, she was going to do it. She was going to cook a pot of soup.

Mrs. Owl crept into the kitchen and stopped short when she realized she did not know the location of her cooking pot. Now, where did I put it? As a rule, owls do not cook.

Mrs. Owl had not cooked in seven months or so, and usually she only cooked for special occasions. Not that this was a special occasion. She'd simply been struck with the idea. She just wanted a bowl of soup for herself and for her darling husband, which they could eat after sunset, sitting together by the fire.

If only I could ask Mr. Owl about the pot, she muttered. He would know where it is. But she couldn't. She searched in the lowest cupboards, opening them quietly so as not to wake Mr. Owl. It must be down here somewhere. But it wasn't. She glanced at the upper cupboards. It couldn't be. Could it?

With a yawn, Mrs. Owl opened the cupboard directly above her head, and her eyes went wide at the sight of her cooking pot. She had forgotten the sheer massiveness of it, and that it had always taken two owls to carry it. A few bowlfuls of soup in that tremendous pot? How silly!

You might be wondering, at this point, why two owls who rarely cook would need a cooking pot so large they'd need to lift it together. There is a good explanation for that. Less than a year ago, the owl's treehouse was quite a different place. It was louder. You're it! Milder.

Messier. Who left out this jar of dehydrated worms? If no one comes forward, I'll eat them all myself. And wilder than it is now. What's this? Is this a zipline? Because back then, the treehouse was filled with owlets. Eleven of them.

Birch, Ember, Aspen, Moss, Willow, Thistle, Juniper, Meadow, Briar, Oakland, and the Littlest Chick. Cedar.

Those years were a blur, with all the boisterousness and frenetic energy that comes with having little birds at home. And although Mrs. Owl did not cook regularly, she did cook occasionally. Even infrequent cooking requires a pot.

At first, she had a small pot, barely big enough to cook for three owls. Eventually, there was a medium-sized pot, but the family grew out of that one, too. The upgrades continued until, finally, Mr. Owl had this enormous and enormously heavy pot.

Pot delivered by several ravens. If only I'd kept that little pot.

But with a treehouse filled with birds, it had been difficult to imagine needing that petite pot ever again. She had given it to a neighbor. Oh, thank you, Mrs. Owl. I can use it to cook meals for Archie, my pet moth. Now Mrs. Owl stared up at the gargantuan pot in her cupboard again.

and felt as if it were staring back at her. There's no way you'll get me down from my throne, the pot seemed to say. Behold my heft.

My ponderosity. And you, with your dainty little bones. There's no conceivable way that... Mrs. Owl brushed aside her latest flight of whimsy and went to get her stepladder from the pantry.

She whispered, shifting the ladder into place. She climbed it, reached up her wings, and grasped hold of one of the pot's handles. This will work, she insisted to herself, dragging the pot out of the cupboard. I've got good balance. I'll lift it onto my head.

But as the pot teetered just above Mrs. Owl, she felt a tremendous yawn overtake her. The small shiver the yawn sent through her was enough to upset her careful balance. The pot did end up on Mrs. Owl's head, just not in the way she'd planned. It toppled and fell directly upon her.

so that she herself went toppling down from the ladder at the same time that the pot hit the wooden floor with a terrible clatter.

For a few moments, as Mrs. Owl lay prone on the ground with the ghastly pot nearby, all she could see was the room spinning above, and all she could hear was a ringing sound that seemed to wander around her head. The ringing slowly faded, and there was complete silence.

Not quiet, as there had been with Mr. Owl's sleep sounds, but utter silence, which could only mean one thing.

Oh, no. Oh, no. As her husband's footsteps grew louder, several thoughts ran through Mrs. Owl's mind. Firstly, she thought, oh, I can't believe I woke him up. He needs his sleep. He works so hard. Secondly, she thought, he's going to tease me about this. And thirdly, he's going to know the real reason why I'm doing it.

Sometimes it takes getting hit on the head with a cooking pot to draw the honesty out of an owl. There was, indeed, a deeper reason, beyond just a spontaneous whim, that Mrs. Owl had decided to cook soup on this particular day.

But we'll get to that in a moment. Mrs. Owl was flat on her back on the floor. She didn't dare move. Didn't even know if she could. She imagined what she must look like, with her wings splayed out. And was that... Oh, dear.

Was that a dent in the floorboards from that nasty cooking pot? She winced, closing her eyes, bracing herself for her darling husband's reaction to this ridiculous situation. She imagined what he might say. Why on earth are you sleeping on the floor of the kitchen?

You'll get a crick in your neck. Or perhaps he'd see the pot right away. Looking to do one of your experiments, are you? Mrs. Owl never used a recipe when she cooked. She preferred to wing it. Mr. Owl affectionately called these attempts her experiments. Or perhaps, and this was her worst fear of all...

He would comment on the timing of this endeavor. Why are you staying up all day to cook on the eve of your own birthday? That's what he'd say. She just knew it, and she knew he'd guide her to her hammock and insist that she go to sleep.

But what about the pot? She'd protest. We'll move it in the morning. Come now. It was all so vivid in her mind. My soup is finished before I've even started it. But Mrs. Owl noticed. She'd had her eyes closed for quite a long time, and she hadn't heard Mr. Owl say anything at all.

Mrs. Owl slowly cracked open one eye. There, in the doorway, was Mr. Owl. His feathers were terrifically askew, as if he'd been spun up in a whirlpool in the river. Does it? I'm found out now. Then, Mrs. Owl noticed something very odd. Mr. Owl's eyes were closed.

She clapped a wing over her beak to keep from gasping in shock.

Mr. Owl lumbered forward, stepped directly over his astonished wife, went to the water jug by the sink, took a long swig, and, without opening his eyes once, whipped around, retraced his steps, again stepping over Mrs. Owl without incident, and stalked out of the kitchen.

After several seconds, during which Mrs. Owl did not breathe once, she heard the creak of Mr. Owl's hammock as he settled into it and heard his snores resume. Mrs. Owl slowly lifted herself up from the floor, and as she did, a delightful thought traveled through her cooking pot-addled mind.

I knew he was a sleepwalker, and now I've finally witnessed it. This is the best birthday gift an owl could ever get. Mrs. Owl had suspected for years that Mr. Owl sleepwalked, but he always denied it. Me? Sleepwalking? How preposterous. I sleep like a boulder. Always have.

Mrs. Owl giggled. It can be delicious to be proven right. She had a second thought, too, which came right after the first. I can cook my soup after all.

But before we get to that, a quick word about Mrs. Owl's birthday, now that the cat is out of the bag, or the wild hamster is out of the net, or whatever. This was Mrs. Owl's first birthday since her little owls had flown away, establishing their own lives and

in some instances, their own families, in forests near and far. And the truth was, she was not sure if anyone, Mr. Owl included, would remember it was her birthday at all. That was her secret fear, at least. So she told herself that

If she could at least have a nice bowl of soup, it would make her birthday feel a bit special. And it was finally time to make that soup. Mrs. Owl discovered, happily, that she was uninjured from her tussle with the cooking pot. She smoothed her feathers and considered her next move.

A brilliant idea struck her. She swiftly went to the hall closet and dropped to the floor to search for something. Yes!

Oh, this is perfect. She reached in a wing and withdrew a small wagon Thistle had used for her dolls. It was dusty with cobwebs. Mrs. Owl shook it out, sneezing when the dust bunnies reached her beak. The wagon had a rope tied to it. This will do, Mrs. Owl thought, her eyes lighting up.

A minute later, she was back in the kitchen, summoning all her strength to lift that beastly pot to rest on the wagon. Then she dragged it slowly across the floor with the rope. I'm a bit of a genius, aren't I? She mused. After getting the pot across the floor, she heaved it up,

and suspended it over the fireplace. It took a few minutes to get the fire going. At first, the flames had no interest in the ball of kindling she'd assembled from dried grass, a pine cone, and wood shavings the owls kept in a bucket near the hearth.

But soon, the flames found the kindling and latched onto it, and before long, there was a robust fire beneath her pot. It was such a lovely, crackling fire, maybe her best ever, that she longed for someone else to see it. Mrs. Owl smiled at the flickering flames.

Then frowned, realizing half the day was gone and the pot was still empty. Sunlight flooded in from the window, and Mrs. Owl could feel exhaustion spreading through her limbs. But she couldn't very well back out of her plan now. She gathered up her focus and headed to the pantry.

Once Mrs. Owl poured the contents of the water jug from the kitchen, she tossed in her ingredients. Into the cavernous pot went the following. An unlucky frog Mrs. Owl had been saving for a special occasion. Several large beetles. For flavor only. She'd fish them out before serving. Three carefully selected mushrooms.

Five whole dandelions, roots and all. The roots, she observed happily, still had a dusting of soil. And a mouse. Actually, two mice. As usual, Mrs. Owl did not use a recipe. Sometimes her experiments did not turn out perfectly as planned. What did I just eat? Was that a rock?

Of course not, dear. That was a seashell. But more often than not, her culinary creations were just right. Like this one. This soup was coming out exactly as she'd hoped. She peered into the pot as it started to bubble. Yes, this'll make two bowls, maybe a bit more. Then she slapped her forehead with a wing.

I can't believe I forgot the crickets. I suppose I'm more tired than I thought. She bustled to the pantry once more and grabbed the burlap sack where she kept her dried crickets. Back at the pot, above the roaring fire, Mrs. Owl leaned over and breathed in deeply. It smelled heavenly, and it will be even better with a few crickets.

Mrs. Owl upended the burlap sack, emptying dried crickets into the soup. But it was not a few crickets. Oh dear, what have I done now? Mrs. Owl felt her whole self go numb with shock. There were, well, there were...

Dozens of crickets. But how did so many get in there? In her sleepy state, Mrs. Owl could not remember collecting all these crickets, let alone drying all these crickets. But she must have done it. And now, instead of enough crickets for two bowls of soup, there were easily enough crickets for, oh dear, more like 100 bowls of soup.

Impulsively, Mrs. Owl grabbed the slotted spoon she kept in a hook near the hearth and dipped it into the pot. "I'll just take the crickets out, that's all. This is fine, everything will be just..." But as she swished her spoon through the broth, which now barely covered the tremendous number of crickets, she imagined the awful reality of dealing with a pile of soggy crickets.

It was hard enough to dry them out in the height of summer, the proper time of year for cricket catching and drying. But the thought of drying crickets in the heart of winter, when the air was cold and damp, well, it was unthinkable. There comes a time during every cooking experiment gone awry where

when one must either forge intrepidly ahead into the unknown, or cut one's losses and toss the whole mess out the window to the birds. Mrs. Owl teetered. She hemmed. She hawed. If she dumped the soup out the window and washed the pot, it would almost be like it never happened.

She could fall into her hammock, still get a few winks in before sundown. But if she did that, she'd have no soup on her birthday. What if no one remembers? Now, Mrs. Owl was an exceptional hunter. And being an exceptional hunter required more than talent or quickness. It required grit and determination.

It required never giving up. She went to work fixing the soup. It's the right decision, Mrs. Owl told herself. Besides, she'd never be able to carry the pot all the way to the window. Unfortunately, fixing the soup meant making a great deal more of it.

To balance out the absurd quantity of crickets, Mrs. Owl added jugfuls of water. And of course, she had to add more of all the other ingredients as well, so that the soup wasn't just cricket soup.

In went more mushrooms, more dandelions, more herbs, more spices, several onions, a bundle of vines. She scrounged around in the pantry and managed to find a small bucket filled with dehydrated ants. Mrs. Owl sniffed at them, frowning. "How long have you been hiding in here?" "Hmm?" She shrugged. Into the soup they went.

Soon, Mrs. Owl's concoction was nearing the brim of the pot. Eventually, after she stopped hovering over it, the soup reached a nice, low boil. Mrs. Owl sighed with relief. Her soup was finally coming together, and not a moment too soon.

Through the window of her treehouse, she saw the sky awash with the colors of sunset. Inside, the house filled with a delicious, savory aroma. There was only one thing left to do. Yawning heavily, Mrs. Owl grasped her ladle from its hook near the hearth, dipped it into her soup, and lifted it to her beak.

But before she got a taste of it, someone tapped her on the shoulder. And Mrs. Owl was so startled, she practically jumped in the air. Her ladle went flying, hitting the ground with a splatter. Who's there? Mrs. Owl stammered, spinning around.

It's only me, Mr. Owl said, smiling. Mrs. Owl swiftly positioned herself between Mr. Owl and the hearth, as if, perhaps, he might not notice the gigantic pot of soup bubbling over the fire. Maybe, she thought quickly, I could distract him by bringing up his sleepwalking episode. But

But she had to shelve that conversation because Mr. Owl craned his neck and said, What's that you've got there? Hmm? I'm not sure what you're referring. That. Right there. Is that... Is that soup?

"'Oh, this,' Mrs. Owl said, reluctantly stepping aside. "'I, I suppose it is.' All of a sudden, the reality of how Mrs. Owl had spent the day hit her with full force, and she felt utterly ridiculous. She had cooked a laughable quantity of soup on the eve of her own birthday, and

And what if it were terrible? What if, after all this, the soup did, indeed, have to be thrown out the window? What if this is delicious? In her rattled state, Mrs. Owl had not noticed Mr. Owl retrieve the ladle from the floor and dip it into the soup. He held it in his wing, grinning.

This is the best soup you've ever made. Mrs. Owl could only blink in response. Was she dreaming?

"'But I have to ask,' Mr. Owl said with a chuckle, "'how did you know to make so much of it?' "'How did I—' "'You obviously figured out the surprise, despite my efforts. "'Although no one expected you to prepare dinner, "'and you look like you haven't slept a wink.' "'Mr. Owl kept talking, but Mrs. Owl couldn't keep any of it straight.'

She was so very tired, she'd only latched onto a single word, surprise. But before she could do any more thinking, there came a knock at the treehouse door.

In all her flights of whimsy, Mrs. Owl had somehow never imagined that her family would not only remember her birthday, but surprise her with a party. But they did. For the first time in nearly a year, every one of her children was back in the treehouse.

three grandchildren too. "Happy birthday, Grandma!" Her treetop nest was filled with banter and laughter once again. It was marvelous. And, according to her family,

So was Mrs. Owl's soup. This is delicious. You've outdone yourself, Mom. It is so like you to make everyone a meal on your own birthday. At this, Mrs. Owl smiled and...

but didn't say a word. She was relieved she hadn't managed to toss the soup out the window for the birds, but they all got a taste of it anyway. After all, she'd cooked enough to feed half the forest. Ember, Moss, and Juniper took it upon themselves to throw open the door, revealing a beautiful night sky with a lovely full moon,

and welcome in the surrounding forest creatures. Just make sure to bring your own bowl. And your own spoon. And your appetite, of course. Mrs. Owl was surrounded by family and laughter. It was all so happy and warm, and she was so very tired that she nodded off.

in her chair as her grandchildren played by the fire. The last thing she heard before she was truly asleep was a question from Mr. Owl. "Where could that sack of crickets have gone? I collected them especially for Mrs. Owl's birthday cake." Mrs. Owl didn't say a word.

Within seconds, she was fast asleep.

Okay, I've done it. I'm not proud of it, but I have had my own Mrs. Owl moments. Times when I played a bit too much jazz in the kitchen, as my own Mr. Owl would say. Times when I tossed an experiment gone awry out the window to the birds. But it's been a long time now since I had to do that again.

Usually, I can forge ahead, even when I've added too much cinnamon or too many crickets. I hope you loved the story.

Little Stories for Tiny People is written, performed, and produced by me, Rhea Pector. My in-house tech director, Peter Kay, runs my website and puts my stories on the internet for all of you to enjoy. Thank you to my Little Stories Premium subscribers who are truly making it possible for me to keep sharing my stories with children around the world.

Thank you to Ava for the super important reminder message at the beginning. And thank you to the many premium subscribers who supplied sound effects used in this story. Thank you to Jack, Mary, Amy, Penny, Micah, Flora, Nari, Levi, Dallas, Ruby, Clancy, Willow, June, Kels,

And thank you, as always, for listening in.