Monkey Soup
One day, the Mack family, of Dayton, Ohio, walked to Ireland. There, they met an old man on the road. He was wrinkly and hunched over from being old. He had a walking stick and wore a large hat. He smiled at the Macks and stopped to talk.
“Hello, friends. Are ye enjoyin’ your walk through me fine country?” he asked.
“Yes we are,” said Dad. “And who are you?”
“I be Connor O’Hatstoobig. I own the inn and café just down the road.”
“That’s perfect,” Mom said. “Walking to Ireland has made us so hungry. We would like to eat at your café.”
“Excellent!” said Mr. O’Hatstoobig. “I’ll serve you up me specialty: Monkey soup.”
“Monkey soup?!” asked Orion Mack.
“Why yes, lad, our monkey soup be the most delicious stew south of Dublin.”
Ozias and Oakly weren’t surprised; They were still young enough that everything from floor to ceiling was food to them. Even monkeys.
At the café, the Mack family sat down, stretched out their legs, and let out long breaths of relaxation. It had been a long walk to Ireland from Dayton, Ohio. They could hear Mr. O’Hatstoobig in the kitchen talking to the cook: “Set aside the Cats Heads and Easy Diggins. Bring out some boiled leaves, an Atlanta Special and three 55s for the ankle biters. Then set me new friends up with four bowls of Bonobo guess water.”
“Do you hear that?” Dad asked the boys, “Mr. O’Hatstoobig is speaking in an ancient language called Gaelic. That’s how Irish people used to speak in the olden days.”
The old man brought out some tea for Mom, a Coke for Dad and root beers for all the boys. And soon after came the Monkey soup!
The Macks looked at their bowls of soup carefully, seeing if they could spot any discernible monkey parts, even though they knew the meat would have been chopped and cooked way past looking like any monkey.
Mom cautiously spooned up a mystery chunk of food: “Is this white cube a piece of monkey fat, Mr. O’Hatstoobig?”
“No no, lass. That’s a potato.”
Then Dad looked at a dripping piece of red something: “Is this monkey meat?”
“No, lad. That’s a tomato.”
Then Orion held up a small nub of a piece of food: “Is this a monkey toe?”
“No, wee fella. That’s a white bean.”
Ozias and Oakly didn’t say anything. They were already shoveling soup into their mouths and enjoying it no matter where the monkey parts were hidden.
“Well,” asked Mom, “are there ANY monkey parts in this soup, Mr. O’Hatstoobig?”
“No, lass, it’s all vegetables. And a very fine mix of vegetables, if I don’t say so meself.”
“But, Mr. O’Hatstoobig,” asked Orion. “Why is it called Monkey Soup?”
Mr. O’Hatstoobig shuffled to the kitchen door, swung it open and pointed inside.
“Because it’s made by me friend Dave, the finest chef in all of Ireland.”
