The Magic Mixup That Wasn’t

Gather close, children of the cauldron. Pour a cup of dandelion tea, or maybe something stronger (but for heaven’s sake—measure it properly), and let me tell you a tale from the Cabin Files of Folly.

There once was a witch—not ancient, but seasoned like a cast iron pan—who didn’t drink much. She had reasons, as all wise women do. She’d grown babies, raised sons, healed hearts, and spent years tending spirit more than spirits.

But one day, in the warm chaos of Leshy’s kitchen, she reached for a drink.

Just one.

A little shot of tequila while he stirred the pot.

She found the perfect glass. Cute. Chubby. Sitting high in the cupboard like it had chosen her. One quick pour, one quick toss, and down it went. Not much of a buzz, of course. (This witch could drink a fifth of Crown and barely blink—an enchantment? A curse? Who’s to say?)

Dinner took its time. Emotions were high. So she had another. Then got irritated and had another. Then—because witches don’t do anything half-heartedly—she had nine.

Nine little glasses. Some tequila. Some a creamy mudslide mix. And suddenly… the veil between worlds began to wobble.

This is when the magic happened.

Words, you see, tried to exit her mouth—but they were not words anymore. No. They were signs.

On cattle.

Cows.

Whole herds of spiritual signage mooing about her mind. Every sentence she tried to speak galloped away, attached to the rear end of a slow-moving thought-beast.

Apparently, she lay on the floor.
Apparently, she told the rawest truths.
Apparently, she broke the filter entirely off the cauldron.

She woke the next morning bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready for a hike. (Because witches are resilient, if nothing else.)

Weeks later, back at Leshy’s, they joked about that night. She picked up the same little glass to make porch margaritas. And Leshy asked:

“Wait… is that what you were drinking out of last time?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“That’s not a shot glass. That’s a baking beaker.”

They measured.

Each “shot” was 3.5–4 actual shots.

She hadn’t had nine.

She’d had twenty-seven.

And thus, the cows were explained.

🐮 Moral of the Story?

• Don’t measure spirits with cookware.
• if you don’t bake stay out of the kitchen
   
• And never try to chase cows in your mind—they don’t line up, and they don’t care about your very important point.