My Neighbour Told Me to Stop Cooking Pongy FoodThen Things Turned Odd
Id just moved into a new flat in a terraced house in London. Next door, a young couple with two children lived on one side, and on the other, a middle-aged woman named Margaret, who kept to herself.
I assumed wed get along fineId never had trouble with neighbours before. But my optimism faded after a bizarre run-in with Margaret.
One evening, as I fried onions and garlic for supper, the doorbell rang. There stood Margaret, lips pursed. She complained the stench from my cooking was seeping through the wall, ruining her favourite telly programme. Could I maybe tone down the garlic next time?
I was too stunned to reply and let it go. Days later, I whipped up my favourite creamy chicken pastaextra garlic, of course. Then, out of the blue, the landlord knocked. Someone had reported a persistent reek from my flat.
**The Fix**
At first, I fumedhow petty, going behind my back! But then I hatched a plan. The next time I cooked the dish, I knocked on Margarets door, grinning. Reckon you were just jealous it smelled too good, I teased, handing her a plate.
**A Twist**
She blinked, then invited me in. Over tea, she confessed: as a girl, shed adored garlic bread. But her late husband loathed the smell, so shed stopped making it years ago. My cooking had stirred up old cravingsand resentment that shed denied herself for his sake.
The next morning, a note appeared under my door: *”Bloody delicious. Ta.”* Now, I always cook extra for Margaret. Sometimes, we even share the kitchen, laughing as the whole hall stinks of garlicand neither of us minds a bit.
