Its all about the present.

It was someone’s birthday last week. In this house, it usually is. My wife loves them. My children love them. There is bunting, and a cake, and a very particular way in which the moment of unwrapping is meant to unfold.

I find the whole ritual — not the sentiment, the ritual — mildly baffling. We are celebrating, at its core, the fact that a person drew breath for the first time. The ultimate participation medal. Well done. You arrived. Here is a cake shaped like a number.

I am probably alone in this line of thinking. And for the record — I do enjoy the day. What I have come to understand is that the gifts are not the point. The point is that everyone, for exactly twenty-four hours, is required to be extraordinarily nice to you. I would take out the trash. But it’s my birthday.

For others, of course, it might be something else entirely. Bats, for instance — maybe it’s just all about the candles. How do you even light one upside down?

As I scrolled through various critters and scenarios I landed on fairy tales. The Brothers Grimm, to be precise.

Those wonderfully gruesome fairy tales about witches at their wits’ end trying to get a fat child into a cauldron. Building houses made entirely of cake and gingerbread — can you imagine the effort involved. The structural challenges alone. All of that to lure one plump German child within grabbing distance.

Which got me thinking about what the ultimate birthday gift for a witch would actually look like?

The cauldron in the corner was probably unavoidable.