A shaggy dough appears. This is where that brief fleeting kitten-curiosity disappears. He loses interest and prowls the kitchen surveying the stock bubbling away. Both our bellies grumble, mine in anticipation for ramen—the springy noodle with a bite to match—and his for the boiled chicken I always make for him as a treat whenever I make my broth for the week. As I skim the broth, I shred some chicken for him. In an hour's time, I stretch out a sheet of dough and make my noodles, dusting them with starch so I can spend the day playing with my cat. The broth simmers away, with little left for me to do but wait.