In the kitchen
Shouldn't the book that described the universe be a novel? There is, theoretically, a book that could describe the universe perfectly while still being an otherwise normal book. Following in the footsteps of Plato's "philosopher king" of the Republic, it would necessarily be a book concerned primarily with philosophy. That being said, would it not also be framed as a novel? How could one encompass life without having it itself?
These thoughts and about a dozen others bounced around his skull as he made perogies. Which is to more accurately say that he clacked away at a keyboard as the perogies boiled behind him. Perogies aren't hard to cook, and the frozen variety are especially hard to fuck up, but he took pride in being able to make them uniquely poorly. Cheap, tasty, simple, and not too unhealthy were four of the three traits he was looking for in food, explaining the six kilos of frozen perogies in the chest freezer. Writing in the kitchen was fun for a two reasons: it had food and it was a place. Hunger and munchies explain the first. Places are anywhere that things happen. So if you were writing and wanted inspiration, or simply liked seeing things happen, places were very good places to be.
The kitchen is place where people cook food, eat food, talk, laugh, and generally live. Consider the fifth stair up on the first floor of your first grade school. Is this a place? Not really, no. Events pass through with the feet of the people they carry. Nothing happens within the space, and calling it a place mislabels it. Kitchen, living room, even the walk to the gas station are all places.