Fifteen-year-old Abigail Foote stirred a giant pot of stinky, bubbling brown goo.
It was 1775 in Colchester, Connecticut. For months, Abigail’s family had saved globs of fat from their meat in big barrels. They had collected ashes from the fireplace.
Now, Abigail boiled the fat and ashes together over a fire outside. Thick smoke stung her eyes. Sweat trickled down her neck.
At last, eight hours later, Abigail’s creation was finished. After it cooled, she reached into the pot and scooped out a lump of wobbly brown jelly.
It wasn’t stew, or medicine, or a magic potion.
It was soap.
Fifteen-year-old Abigail Foote stirred a giant pot of stinky, bubbling brown goo.
It was 1775 in Colchester, Connecticut. For months, Abigail’s family had saved globs of fat from their meat. They had collected ashes from the fireplace.
Now, Abigail boiled the fat and ashes together over a fire outside. Thick smoke stung her eyes. Sweat ran down her neck.
Eight hours later, Abigail’s creation was finished. After it cooled, she reached into the pot and scooped out a lump of wobbly brown jelly.
It wasn’t stew. It wasn’t medicine. It wasn’t a magic potion.
It was soap.