He set a tray on my lap and one beside me for Aster, before heading back to grab his own.
“Ginger?” I ventured. “I mean, he is orange.”
“Maybe. I sorta want to see what his personality is first though.”
“We could try out different names and see what fits?” Tane suggested.
Aster nodded. “That might work, let’s start with Ginger.”
Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Tane
The next few days passed quickly.
Aster, Dillon and I fell into a sort of unspoken agreement that the kitten was never to be left alone in the house.
So, if I was going out to talk to someone about what Christmas songs they wanted to play at our food drive, I’d make sure Aster was home.
If Aster wanted to go for a run, he’d do it before Dillon left for work.
Between the three of us, the little ginger tom was entertained and cuddled as much as he wanted to be.
In the first couple of days none of us slept much because the kitten would wake at two in the morning with the zoomies, which caused him to tear up and down the hallway, yodelling. He even climbed the curtains at one point.
Dillon came home from work the third day looking like an extra out ofThe Walking Dead, so Aster shut little Ginger in his bedroom at night from then on.
***
On the twentieth of December I went into the grocery store to help out. Christian and I emptied the Christmas donations receptacle because it was overflowing and no one could add any more.
We found space for the donations out at the back and they were already stacking up again, so I made a start at packing food parcels, sharing out the items between multiple boxes, until I ran out of space in the back.
I spent a few hours each day helping in the store until Dillon kicked me out.
Then I’d go home and try and attempt some of the Christmas baking recipes Ma had sent me.
I had vague memories of helping my grandmother make some of them, when I was a kid.
Most of it came back relatively easy. Cookies I could do, they were pretty straightforward once I got the hang of Dillon’s stand mixer.
But the Russian fudge, a staple at a Kiwi Christmas event, was a lot harder.
Aster got invested in the making of fudge as well, possibly because I let him eat my failed batches.
“I just don’t understand why it won’t set right.” I handed over my latest squidgy tray of fudge goo.
Aster took it with one hand and waved his phone at me with the other. “Internet says you’re probably not boiling it hot enough.”
I blinked at him. “It’s boiling, right? I thought that was a strict 100 degrees Celsius thing. How can you boil hotter than boiling?”
“You’re in the States, we use Farenheit,” Aster said. He set the tray down and went into the kitchen.
I followed, since it seemed like he wasn’t done talking.
Aster rummaged through the kitchen drawers and eventually came out brandishing a small device. “Here, you need this.”
