Really, at this point I am having to hope that making cocoa on a gas ring is domestic enough to qualify for my own silly ficathon prompt. Because so far that's all the domesticity a nervy Ethan has allowed his new friend Rupert, in 4000 words of jittering. Though Rupert has made some unwary boasts about what he could do if he had an oven. There are some word games I'm playing that are making the writing interesting. And I am happy with the character issues. It's just... not as domestic as it was when I started it.
I might have to return to slowly stirring stock into risotto, despite my extreme stuckness on the non-cooking issues swirling around that one.
Speaking of domesticity: The Kitten and the Cat were curled around each other on the platform at the top of the cat tree this morning. She was grooming him. He seemed nonplussed.
It's in the 40s mid-day on the San Francisco Peninsula. We're not used to this.