Dolce sits upright on his kitchen stool, and sets his pen perfectly perpendicular to the page. "Aphrodite, please, do not take my silence as an attempt to ignore your presence. Not now, after we have journeyed so far." He pushes an ashtray to the edge of the counter, as far as he can reach. Offering, to whoever may be standing near by. "Rather, our small crew is busy preparing quite the offering to you. I hope that you enjoy it, when the time comes."

He takes up his pen again. Speaking not to the limited quantity of ashtrays aboard their vessel. Speaking not to how much operational friction a limitless supply of carelessly-strewn ashes could produce. Offering, humbly, a proper receptacle for a god's cigarette. 

His pen flies through the last letters. His penmanship is no less flawless for the speed of his hand. They have little time. This deserves the best.

He tucks his papers into the red folio labeled [i]Recipes,[/i] and soon his hoofsteps are receding down the smoke-strewn hallways.