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.

He gasped. He fanned his mouth. He drank an entire glass of milk in the kitchen, from mild curry, in front of me. And in doing so he confessed, completely, to eating the food he had sworn for a year he never touched.

I just looked at him. He looked at me. We both knew. He bought his own groceries after that, every week, and labeled them, and never touched mine again.