The Soup Pot at Willow Square
The soup pot in Willow Square was famous, and today people lined up with bowls, laughing and waving their spoons. Momo the creep edged closer and sniffed the air, his nose twitching. Something was off. Tilda the Cook lifted the lid with a flourish, and a cloud of steam puffed out. “Best batch yet!” she called. Iggy dipped his spoon, took a slurp, and suddenly made a face. “Why is it… crunchy?” Momo leaned over the rim, peering into the swirling broth. Near the carrots floated tiny pale curls. He blinked hard. “Are those… fingernails?” Tilda gasped, clutching her apron. “Impossible! I wash everything!” One by one, others tasted. Faces scrunched. Bowls clinked down on the table, and the cheerful line broke apart into worried murmurs. “If no one eats,” Tilda said, wringing her apron, “the festival is ruined.” Momo grabbed a ladle and set his jaw. “I’ll find where they’re coming from.”
Momo slipped behind the stall with Tilda, where carrots, onions, and herbs lay in bright, messy piles. At the table, Iggy chopped with a quick thump-thump-thump, his knife flashing. “Show me everything,” Momo said, watching closely as Tilda rinsed vegetables in a tub, swish, swish, clean and clear. Iggy kept chopping, faster and faster. “Hold on,” Momo said, leaning in. “Your hands.” Iggy froze. His nails were long and ragged, and tiny pale bits dotted the board among the carrot coins. He swallowed. “I’ve been biting them,” he mumbled. “And… they keep breaking.” Momo pointed toward the steaming pot. “Those pieces are slipping in with the carrots.” Iggy’s face went chalky. “I didn’t mean to!” Tilda pressed her lips tight and glanced at the line of waiting bowls. “We need a fix now, or the crowd goes hungry.” Momo scanned the supply crate, then grabbed a small brush, a bowl of water, and a pair of gloves. He set them down with a tap. “New plan.”
Momo quickly set up a little station beside the stall. “First, trim and clean nails. Then gloves. Then chopping,” she said, and Iggy nodded hard. Snip went the clippers, then scrub-scrub in the tub, and at last he tugged on a pair of gloves before picking up his knife again, moving slower this time. Nearby, Momo leaned over the pot and carefully skimmed off the tiny pale curls. “Fresh batch,” she said. Tilda tipped the old soup away and started again, and soon the pot bubbled, sending up a rich, warm smell that curled through the air. Iggy tasted a spoonful and broke into a grin. “No crunch.” People drifted back as bowls filled and spoons clinked, smiles returning with each bite. Tilda handed Momo a steaming bowl. “You saved the festival.” Momo gave a small shrug and a little smile. “Just had to look closely.” Iggy lifted his gloved hands. “And not rush.” The line stretched across Willow Square, and this time every bowl came back empty.
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