“The clawfoot bathtub,” this book begins, “is a distant cousin of the crockpot and cauldron. Although its natural habitat is typically found outside the kitchen, it demonstrates a particular susceptibility to culinary magic due to its shape and composition. Being quadrupedal and wrought from relatively flexible materials, bringing one to life is often one of the most basic lessons taught to apprentice deep chefs.”

The tome contains hundreds of unusual mixtures of recipe and ritual. Each page contains a formulaic process that, if followed correctly, will cause a clawfoot bathtub to unhinge itself from the floor and begin waddling about on its tiny legs. “They usually make great companions,” it reads, “that is, if you don’t mind cleaning up the puddles that are left behind as they slosh around your laboratory.”

That noted, it does later state that the temperament of a bathtub familiar is directly based on the formula used. Raspberry-lava compote is noted to create a particularly hostile automaton with no respect for organic lifeforms. A cocktail of gray lemon preserves and jet fuel results in a slow, bumbling tub that seems quite shy at first; however, given the opportunity, it will attempt to crush the air from its master’s lungs in his or her sleep.

The second-to-last page contains a warning: “Do not consume the contents of any tub that has been animated, and especially, do not bathe inside of a tub that is currently alive.” Sadly, the last page, which outlines the potential consequences of such a lapse in judgment, is missing.