My husband fiddles with things. If I'm cooking, he'll come and stir. If I'm washing up, he'll idly pick up a saucepan and check it's clean. He re-folds the dishcloth. Before he gets into bed, he fluffs his pillow up and bashes it until it's how he wants it. It drives me nuts. I stay home, he goes out to work, so I do all the housework, cooking, cleaning, gardening, diy (he's not allowed near power tools; I need him in one piece) and all the practical childcare. And I do it really well. He doesn't NEED to interfere with ANYTHING. But somehow, he feels he has to. In the interest of familial harmony, I chew my liver in silence and don't let rip (he's not really wordlessly commenting on the quality of my housekeeping) but if he ever decides to mess with my witch stuff he would feel the full force of Old Kitchen Witch's wrath.
And the Kitchen (it's so important it gets a capital letter) is my Witch domain. OK, there's an altar in the lounge, along with a bookcase containing all manner of esoteric books, my bureau that is stuffed with journals, tarot and oracle decks and far too many candles, but the proper Witchcraft is all carried out in the Kitchen. Whether it's making incense, powders, brews, tinctures, herbal remedies, potions, lotions, hexes or tex-mex it's all done here. I'm even writing this on the laptop in the Kitchen.
So without ever telling him, he manages to avoid the top of the fridge (all non-edible herbs and stuff), the herb cupboard, the mortar and pestle, the huge box filled with glass jars that will one day come in useful and the pile of workings that live on the windowsill. Guess he prefers his testicles intact. Which is how I like 'em, anyway.