Listening to the radio today and the RJ is asking us to tell her the thing we hate most about our roommate. Now, let me hasten to add that it is not J that I am going to talk about here- he is quite the model roommate and, besides, keeps the kitchen frighteningly clean. No, I have one particular horror-story about a roommate and food.
She was much older than I was, I being but a callow mid-twenties type in those days. So she disliked me already, and she objected to my very existence and the fact that I didn't spend my every waking hour studying or worrying, like her. One day, she put something on the stove and went off to visit a friend upstairs. Now bear in mind that we lived in a dorm, and it was January. The windows were closed and the apartment was, in keeping with the wildly fluctuating thermostats, overheated.
Presently, there started emanating an odor from my roommate's cooking-pot. When I say odor, I mean nauseating, suicide-inducing stink. I held my nose as long as I could, but not being a human whale, couldn't manage it for long. I finally sneaked over and lifted the lid, just to see what could be possibly be in that blessed pot. And what was it? It looked like a white, gluey honeycomb. I think I screamed and dropped the lid back on.
Later, when she was back and the food was gone, I casually asked her what she'd been cooking. She said, 'oh that was some tripe.' Which means, the stomach of some animal. Right. The next day, for breakfast I fried some eggs. She got out of bed, came to the kitchen and said, "can you open the windows? I can't stand this smell."