After a long and productive lifetime of hunching over her bubbling cauldron muttering incantations and concocting various enchanted brews, the wretched crone finally came to the realization that she was no longer in her prime. In addition to the pronounced dowager’s hump she’d developed, her arthritic feet were an almost constant source of pain and torment for her. She could barely stuff her wrinkled toes into those pointed boots any longer.

One evening as she emptied her tote sack onto her enormous chopping block and began the tedious task of mincing up a fresh batch of bat tongues and newt eyes, an idea suddenly dawned upon her. If she had a smaller, more portable cutting board, she might just as easily process these ingredients in her lap as she was comfortably seated beside her boiling cauldron. “Ah, yes,” She muttered to herself. “It would be nice to be able to sit for a spell.”