Gruel (noun): a thin liquid food of oatmeal or other meal boiled in milk or water.

I first learned of gruel when I read Oliver Twist. I remember feeling sorry for Oliver and the other orphans as they ate gruel three times a day. Yuck!  Little did I know, one day I would be the one laboring over a steaming pot of gruel.

My husband and I were living in a one-room cabin on a camp property in Kamchatka. In the summer we would conduct summer camps for the local children and teens.

When we moved to the camp, we inherited a shepherd/rottweiler mix guard dog named Jack, and a semi-feral guard cat, whom we called Jill.

The former camp manager instructed me in the care and feeding of Jack and Jill. I learned their diet consisted of a daily bowl of gruel. Of course, my first thought was to run to the local market and buy a bag of dog food.  But, I quickly discovered the village market didn’t sell dog food. This led to my brief stint as a gruel chef.

Once a week, I built a fire in the wood stove and dragged out my giant cauldron. Into the boiling water, I would throw grain and any scraps left over from our meals. I stirred the bubbling brew and watched cabbage leaves, fish heads, and other unrecognizable bits and pieces circle the pot as the gruel thickened.

Once the gruel cooked down into an unappetizing glutinous mixture, I would set the pot outside on the porch to cool. Every day I put out a cold bowl of gruel for Jack and Jill. They slurped the congealed mass and smacked their lips looking for more.

One wintry day, I finished concocting my unappetizing brew and prepared to carry it outdoors. Muscles straining, I picked up the pot and headed to the door.

Using my hip, I bumped open the wooden door and was greeted by Jill, the cat. The fumes from the gruel may have caused tears to come to my eyes, but it smelled like catnip to Jill. She danced around my feet, meowing and begging for a taste.

Suddenly, my left foot slipped on an icy patch and my right foot came down on Jill. Jill shrieked and streaked across the yard. I came down hard on my back and gazed up at an airborne pot of gruel headed in my direction. Splat!

I wallowed out of the slop on the porch, wiped my face to clear the gruel out of my eyes, and stomped across the yard looking for my husband. He immediately burst into laughter at the sight of my gruel encrusted person. Needless to say, I did not see the humor in the situation.

As a piece of cabbage slid out of my hair and trailed down my slimy face, I poured out my grueling tale. In a rage, I declared that this was my last pot of gruel. The next time we made the 8-hour drive to the city, a big bag of dog food, and one of cat food would be at the top of the shopping list.

On the next trip to town, we purchased dog and cat food. I gave Jack and Jill each a bowl, anticipating their delighted response, only to watch them push it aside. They. Hated. It.

As Jack and Jill stuck their noses in the air refusing my offering of “real” food, I resorted to my best imitation of St. Paul fussing at the Corinthians for preferring milk over meat. During my Pauline-style lecture, they listened attentively, then rolled their eyes. Hmmm…. How many times had I reacted similarly when God tried to move me from “spiritual” milk to more meatier lessons. But that’s another story!

So next, I resorted to a new strategy. Every day I added a little more dog food to the gruel until Jack and Jill’s stomachs adjusted to the new diet. The new menu didn’t thrill them, but they grudgingly accepted it. My gruel cauldron went into permanent storage.

There was one unexpected result from being doused in malodorous gruel.

After washing out the gruel, my hair never felt softer or looked better.

The lingering odor of cabbage and fish was a little off-putting to my husband.

But, Jack and Jill adored it.