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A young farmer and his wife sat down to dinner.

"Meg, dear," said Matt, "you are a fine cook. This good stew makes me think of my mother's lentil soup. I love lentil soup. I could eat lentil soup every day, seven days a week."

Sunday came, the first day of the week. for the first time Meg cooked lentil soup. Matt tasted it. After his first spoonful he said, "I love lentil soup. But this soup is not like my mother's lentil soup."

"I'll try again," said Meg.

On Monday, the second day of the week, Meg cooked lentil soup a second time. She made it with oxtail. That evening, Meg served the soup to Matt. He tasted it and then he shook his head. He put his spoon down. After dinner, Meg said, "I know , you love lentil soup. But my soup is not like your mother's lentil soup."

On Tuesday, the third day of the week, Meg tried a third pot of lentil soup. It was made with fish. When Matt tasted the soup, he looked sadly at Meg, and Meg looked sadly at him.

Meg did not give up. On the fourth day of the week, Wednesday, she made a fourth pot of lentil soup. She cooked it with pigs' knuckles. The soup smells delicious," said Meg, and she smiled. But Matt said, "Meg, this lentil soup with pigs' knuckles is not for me. My mother never made lentil soup with pigs' knuckles."

Meg had to do something. On Thursday, the fifth day of the week, she tried a witch's brew of lentil soup. Matt just said, "I love lentil soup, but this does not taste at all like my mother's lentil soup."

The next day was Friday, the sixth day of the week. Meg sighed and said, "Matt, dear, try bean soup or pea soup, chicken soup or mock turtle soup, wonton or alphabet, mulligatawny or bird's next soup, mushroom soup or gumbo, borscht or even bisque." Matt shook his head. "No," he said. "I love only lentil soup. Lentil soup like my mother's lentil soup.

It was Saturday, the seventh day of the week. Once more Meg was cooking lentil soup. Suddenly she stopped and cried, "ENOUGH! I've been cooking lentil soup for one week!" And she ran out of the kitchen.

But the lentil soup stayed on the fire and cooked . . . and cooked . . . and overcooked.

Dinnertime came, Meg served the burned lentil soup. Matt tasted one spoonful and said...

"THIS tastes like my mother's lentil soup!"