The Roommate Who Ate My Food for a Year

I lived with a roommate who had a simple philosophy: anything in the fridge was his, and anything of his was also his. I labeled my food. I bought a shelf organizer. I asked nicely, then not nicely. He ate my leftovers, my snacks, the ingredients I had bought for specific meals, and looked me dead in the eye every time and said he "would never."

I was not going to poison anyone or do anything I would regret. I am not that person. But I did decide to let him catch himself.

I cooked a big, genuinely delicious-looking batch of curry, portioned it into containers, and labeled the top one, in big friendly marker, with my name and the words "extra spicy — ghost pepper — be careful." The curry was, in fact, mild. That was the whole trick.

He came home, opened the fridge, and I heard the container come out. I heard the microwave. I said nothing. He sat down in the living room with my clearly labeled, clearly warned-about food, took a triumphant bite, and immediately performed the greatest piece of physical comedy I have ever witnessed, because he had spent the last thirty seconds mentally preparing for a fire that never came, and his own brain convinced him it was the hottest thing he had ever eaten.