Hazel the Witch and the Cookie Cauldron

Chapter 1: We Judge Each Other

At the end of Crooked Lane, past the leaning mailbox and the twisted apple tree, stood a crooked little cottage with a pointed roof, a black cat on the windowsill, and a bubbling cauldron in the garden.

This was the home of Hazel, the witch.

Hazel wore a tall, floppy hat with a patch on the brim, and a long purple cloak with deep pockets. Her nose was long, her laugh was a little cackly, and her broom had a bent handle. In every way, she looked exactly like the witches in the old stories.

But Hazel had a secret that she was too shy to shout from the rooftops.

She did not brew potions. She baked cookies.

It had started many years ago. Hazel's first potion had turned a frog into a slightly confused teapot. Her second had made her own eyebrows grow down to her chin. Her third had exploded.

"Potions," she decided, scraping soot from her cloak, "are not for me."

But one rainy afternoon, she wandered into her kitchen and stirred together flour, butter, sugar, and a pinch of cinnamon. She baked them in her cauldron-shaped oven and pulled out a tray of golden, crinkly cookies that smelled like cozy afternoons.

She tried one. It was the most wonderful thing she had ever tasted.

"Well," she said, licking crumbs from her fingers. "That's more like it."