Once upon a time there was a husband and wife, the husband was a great gut of a man and the wife was a cook, and since that was all she did, that was what he called her. “Here, cook!” he’d shout, and he would send her scurrying to his side. She would spend all morning making his midday meal, and when he strode up from the fields at noon he would scoop the whole thing up at once. She would immediately begin on his dinner, a great tablefull of food that he would eat in a few mouthfuls. Then she would spend all night cooking up a breakfast he would toss down in a moment.
“I need more than this measly capful!” he’d roar, and send her scurrying into the kitchen.
Eventually the woman became tired of such a life.
“I need more than bellowing and belly-fulls!” she thought to herself. It seemed like each time her husband got home, he was a little bigger. The other day, he had to crouch under the rafters lest he hit his head, and when he ate his dinner it was barely two mouthfuls.
“Perhaps one day he’ll have his fill, and come for me as afters.” Right then she swore that would never happen.
The wife was a clever and scheming woman, more than anyone gave her credit for. That night as she lay in bed, the great stomach snoring beside her, it occurred to her how ogreish her husband seemed.
“Perhaps if I gave him taste for different meat, that would be his downfall.”
That day, as he strode off to the fields again, she went to the nearby pasture and killed a spring lamb. Leaving the waste in the field for the village to find she hastened home, to cook the lamb in a big pot. She served it on the great platter, with a few new greens here and there, just in time for her husbands thumping footsteps to arrive. He threw open the door with a
“Cook, I hunger!”, before being greeted with the sight of a single plateful of food on the table and the wife sweeping crumbs into the palm of her hand as if there were nothing off in the world.
“What’s this!?” he roared, rattling the plates in the cupboard, which the wife steadied with her hand.
“‘Tis a bit of wisdom I’ve heard,” she told him slyly, “that the newest meat will fill you up most and two-legged the most tender.” The husband merely grunted at this and sat down to eat, and for once not complaining of hunger afterwards.
That night, over a roaring snore and the grumbling of a tummy, the wife chuckled at her cleverness and planned the next meal. That midnight, she stole out of the house and into the outskirts of the village, going into barns and taking cats. And though she was sparing she took just enough to be missed. She swiftly trotted home, and popped her prizes in the oven. That morning at sunrise her husband, too hungry to nearly be so grumpy, sat down to a new dish.
“‘Tis a new, tender meat my dear.” She cooed, and encouraged her husband to try it. He didn’t just swallow this time; he chewed and strode to the fields. She nearly kicked her heels at her cleverness, and trotted off to the next thing.
That day, as the sun was high in the sky and the women were at their washing, she crept up to a babe in its cradle and stole it away stealthily. She left the blankets mussed and deep footprints, and hastened back home. Nursing the babe in the crook of her arm, she prepared a small bed of greens, which she set on the table. Next, she lay the babe down, quite asleep. It was some time before her husband came home, footsteps not nearly so thumping as before, and no doubt twice as hungry. She sat herself at the table and hid a smile behind her napkin. The door creaked open, lacking its usual bang and her husband plodded into the room. He merely sat down and said nothing, blinking his great eyes. At long last, he growled
“the salt, woman!” with none of his usual vigor. The wife smiled slyly and passed it, already hearing the villagers outside on the path. Her husband raised his meal to his mouth, and in a trice, the door had blown open and in half a trice, the babe was taken from him, and in no time at all, the villagers drove him out of town. The woman merely smiled slightly, and was free from then on. She dispelled any whispers resourcefully, when asked she merely cited his want for greater and sweeter meats.
In less than a wink, she had sold her house and left to make a living for herself in a nearby town called Strathmore, setting up shop in a small street. Business was fair, and when it ‘twas not, her quick tongue and sharp wit saved her. Still, from time to time, news of her husband’s doings would come to her; from time to time his goings-on would pass by her ears. She heard he had grown tusks and resided in a cave, not too far from the village she had lived in. With each tale, each retelling, he got bigger, his arms got longer, and his voice immense. The say he ate travelers on the wrong roads, and threatened to crush farmers in their cottages if they did not give him their sheep, he stole babes from cradles, and girls from wells. It seemed no one was safe.
Well, about that time the woman decided she might do something about it, might she not! So she took her biggest, sharpest knife, her large cooking pot, a needle and thread, and at her behest from some confused glass-smiths, some quantity of sand. Then she made the day’s journey to the village. After getting directions and being warned thoroughly from the villagers, she found the ogre’s cave in a ravine not too far from the main road. After entering and tsking at the state of affairs in the place, she set out to the kitchen, which, as it turned out, was a right mess. It took her a long while to clean to her satisfaction, and then, going to the larder for food to cook, she heard familiar huge steps outside the cave. The door boomed open, and there was her husband-ogre, large as life and smelling of the day’s doings. The ogre, upon seeing her, merely shrugged as if she had been there the whole time. With a request “Bring me some dinner woman!” she set off to work.
Finding half a milking cow, who had not been dead too long, she dressed it and made a neat prize of it, skinning it like a thunderbolt. In goes the stuffing for the inside, and in goes the liberal dose of sand she had mixed it with. Sprinkling in with salt, pepper, and more sand, she cooked it quickly as she could. Just as she heard her husband pounding his silverware on the table outside, the cow was done to a turn. Hefting the huge platter as best she could, the wife brought her husband his plate of dinner.
But instead of picking up his fork and digging right in he poked it suspiciously.
“Woman, the meat be stiff as starch!” he bellowed, and she was quick to sooth him.
“'Tis merely new meat,” she told him, “I had to stuff it full, or it would slide off the bones.” He speared a chunk with his fork and tasted it.
“Woman, the meat be bland as wheat flour!” he cried, and this she related,
“I could not salt the meat, ‘twould make it too tough.” Appeased, he raised a bite into his mouth and chewed.
“Woman!” he spat, “The meat is tough and gritty, and you said no salt!” for once, the woman scrambled for an explanation. As she wiped bits of dinner from her person, she collected herself.
“Why-why, 'tis merely the grain I put in as a stuffing!” she gasped. “I had not time to grind them fine, you shouted so.” Content, the ogre slopped off the rest of his meal, wiping his warty lips on the back of his hand and tramping off to bed. The woman merely washed the dishes and waited, smiling slyly all the while.
After an hour, there was groaning, and she waited. After two hours there was whimpering, and she waited more. After three hours, there was mewling, and she waited still. After four hours, there was weeping, and still she waited. And after five hours, there was outright sobbing, with howls mixed in. In she walked, sweet as springtime.
“Something the matter, husband?” She queried. The ogre lay there with great, red-rimmed eyes and clutching his towering belly in agony.
“Wife, methinks dinner did not agree with me!” he choked, his eyes rolling pitifully. The wife feigned concern and deep thought, tilting her head to the side.
“Perhaps I shall go to the midwife, and get you some treatments?” she suggested coyly. At this the great monster shook his heavy head.
“Nay, wife, I fear my end is near, and drinking a concoction would only swell my stomach even more.” He howled, and she imitated thought more. Then she pretended to get a bright idea.
“Husband,” she told him excitedly, “I’ve a thought. If I were to open your stomach, and take some mass out, and you shall be better again.” The large man shook his head again, sending spittle flying.
“Nay, wife. Were you to open me up, and take some of me out, I fear my life coming out with it.”
“P’shaw.” She said to him. “I’ve a needle and thread, and I’ve merely to sew you together again, neat as any pig.” With that, the ogre gave and bade her bring her tools from the kitchen, he lowered the covers and bared his large stomach to her. The woman was plenty practiced, and with one whack! She split his great gut in two and he died.
After recovering her effects, and collecting a tidy sum from the villagers in thanks, she made her way home, setting up shop once more. In time she married, and had children, and ruled her family with a kind fist. And if ever her husband’s eye e’er strayed to a young lassie, he would think of his wife’s knife in the kitchen and what she could do with it. He would not leave her in any case, not when she made the best meat pies in Strathmore.
