The Soup That Nearly Became a Potion

Two bowls of orange pumpkin soup stood on the low kitchen table. Puschel sniffed. Flauschi put two spoons beside them. They had prepared the meal together: Flauschi had cut the pumpkin, which they knew was an edible variety, and cooked the soup. Puschel had brought the mats and napkins. Now the soup had cooled to a comfortable eating temperature.

‘Sixteen days until Halloween,’ said Puschel. ‘Our soup needs a special name.’ He picked up his empty spoon and held it low over his own bowl. ‘Today this is my magic wand!’ Flauschi looked at the spoon, then at the soup. ‘My spoon can just be a spoon today. I’d like to taste some.’

‘Just one tiny spell,’ Puschel begged. He thought for a moment. ‘Pumpkin round and spoon so neat, turn this soup into … a seat!’ He stared into his bowl in surprise. Luckily, everything was still soup. ‘That was the wrong rhyme,’ he said. ‘I was still thinking about our invitations yesterday.’ Flauschi giggled. ‘A soup cushion would be rather awkward. It would slosh when you sat down.’

Puschel put his spoon beside his bowl. ‘Then I’d rather have something that tastes good.’ He tried again, this time without waving anything about. ‘Pumpkin round and spoon so neat, make this soup a tasty treat!’ Flauschi smiled. ‘We can find that out. No magic needed.’ She took a small spoonful. Puschel waited for her verdict, keeping his paws still in his excitement.

‘Mild and lovely and creamy,’ said Flauschi. Now Puschel tasted some too. ‘It tastes of pumpkin,’ he announced happily. Then he studied his spoon more closely. ‘My magic wand can even carry soup.’ ‘It could do that before,’ said Flauschi. ‘It was just waiting for its turn.’ Puschel laughed and took another small spoonful.

Outside, autumn leaves glowed beyond the two round kitchen windows. Inside, the cooker was already off. ‘What shall we call it, then?’ asked Flauschi. Puschel thought for a moment. ‘Golden Cosy Soup.’ He nodded towards its orange colour. ‘Because it looks so friendly. And because we’re taking our time over our meal.’ Flauschi nodded. ‘An imaginary name for an ordinary, good soup.’

They put their spoons down to talk and carried on eating quietly. Nothing had to sparkle, float or suddenly change colour. As Puschel spooned up the last little bit from his bowl, he grinned. ‘That nearly became a potion.’ Flauschi looked at the empty bowls. ‘Luckily, it stayed our supper.’ And Puschel thought it was a rather tasty idea for a cosy Halloween party.