My roommate is leaving me.
I’m very aware that I comfort myself with food. Unlike normal people, that doesn’t mean a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. Ew…and it’s not even a few scoops of good gelato from Caffe Romagna. For me, this is a home-cooked, well-rounded meal. Know how some people say they’re too stressed to eat? Or too busy, or they forgot? Yeah, that never happens to me. Eating is something that happens three times a day and only in extreme circumstances does that waver. That doesn’t mean I cook three elaborate meals a day, but I try to enjoy three pauses in the day to appreciate food, relax, and have fun.
So the fact that I haven’t wanted to cook very much is sad. I don’t think it’s because my roommate is leaving that I haven’t been cooking, but it is odd that I haven’t been cooking as a comfort for the fact that my roommate is leaving. Probably it hasn’t sunk in yet. A good roommate is a hard thing to find. An exceptional roommate is rare. When my roommate leaves in September for rockier pastures (Newfoundland…),
who will tell me I’m a geek for getting excited about using all four of my mixing bowls?
Who will mistake “deer” for “beer” when I make jiaozi?
Who will save the day when I leave essential duck fat in Montreal?
Who will remind me that I am a very strange young person who is comforted by saag, economical with toasted sesame seeds, and barely escapes flying pieces of rogue garlic?
These are all stellar qualities in a roommate. Yesterday was my first comfort food attempt, I think. Well, a third for comfort, a third out of curiosity, and a third out of practicality. Starting from the end and working my way back: I had a bag of new potatoes that needed to be eaten, I wanted to see if it really made a difference to sauté and roast with meat fat instead of oil, and I wanted to be satisfied by a good meal.
So I chipped away at my hunk of frozen lamb fat from making lamb broth and heated up a generous 2 tablespoons over medium-high heat in my roommate’s large skillet before my potential roommate showed up to look at the apartment. You see, I’d made an appointment, despite my sadness. Always practical. I wasn’t excited about it. In fact I was fairly sure it wasn’t going to work out just by our first phone conversation. I am, however, a horrible judge of character, so I figured I’d let the fellow come over.
This is way more fat than I ever use to sauté anything, but I wanted to make sure I got the true taste of the fat. No use jeopardizing the results. I scrubbed the potatoes and chopped them into chunks. Then when the fat was hot I tossed them in. They sizzled very nicely, and there was so much oil that I never even dreamed of adding water to help the potatoes along. 
After I had rotated the potatoes enough that all the sides were nicely browned, I transferred them to a roasting pan and stuck them in my preheated oven at 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
The nice-enough-sounding potential roommate called to say he would arrive soon. Why hadn’t I started dinner earlier? I hate interrupting a meal. This is not his fault. Don’t hold it against him.
After about 20 minutes in the oven the potatoes were good and tender, and I tried them before sprinkling them with a little bit of fleur de sel. Suddenly the flavour exploded. The chunks of salt broke down and spread all over my tongue in each bite. A little went a long way. That was all the potatoes needed – the salt. I don’t think the fat really made that much difference. If I had used 2 tbsp of oil instead of animal fat I think the potatoes would have browned just as nicely. I couldn’t really taste lamb, just delicious potato. Real potatoes. “From a good farmer’s market” potatoes. With my roasted chicken, it was ultimate comfort. Oh, and some farmer’s market fresh eggplant and peas. Shucking takes an age, but it’s worth it. 
If only I’d eaten them two days previously, or let them get mushy, they would have tasted nicer and less starchy. Still, they were pretty fresh, and in a world of frozen peas, that’s something special.
So I had about 5 bites and then the guy who was coming to look at the apartment showed up, and it all got covered and left to stay warm. I showed him around. Typical tour, typical apartment hunting questions. Then the inevitable, “do you like to cook?” when we got to the kitchen. He didn’t really cook much, but he was learning. See, I’ve heard that before. Everyone who doesn’t cook is “learning” whether or not they have any real ambition to learn. I’m also not an about to be a taken-advantage-of kitchen teacher. Either it’s my kitchen with the occasional appearance of another person, or you need to be a good cook, and inspire me a little, or at the very least, respect food. To me, you can’t respect food if you can’t cook it. Why does that chicken have to be organic? Why not just eat fast food all the time because it’s cheaper. If you cook for yourself, pay a little attention to the world around you (you know, books or a newspaper…), and have any taste-buds at all, you’ll understand the answers.
There are things to look for in a roommate. Cleanliness is big, but it depends on your mutual happiness with a certain level of cleanliness. Laziness is big, but it depends on whether it irritates the other person – is it laziness in your own life or laziness in buying kitchen paper towel?
I showed him my spice cupboard. I have a three tier cupboard of spices, organized, but in a way that probably only makes sense to me. He was impressed in a slightly overwhelmed kind of way. We talked about what I like to cook. I can go on about that…but then I remembered that while he was learning about me, I was learning nothing about him. Still, I was in the position of power. He could want to be my roommate and still I get the final say. Nice enough, he seemed, but is that good enough? Do I really want to settle so soon? It’s still early. I have time.
About 3 months ago there were a ton of articles in big newspapers (the Life sections. Apparently all Life writers convene and agree on what to write internationally that week, because it all too often seems to be coordinated) and on TV shows on the subject of “settling”; how men are happier to settle and women are too picky and will never be happy. That’s the gist of it. We’re doomed unless we go with the guy that doesn’t make us swoon, but doesn’t drive us to criminal acts.
Well I’m sorry, but I’ve been in too many relationships, roommates and otherwise, where “I’m no longer swooning” equated to “he or she is pissing me off”. The honeymoon effect. So in my mind there’s no need to rush to any conclusions and jump in with the first shmo who seems like a decent guy. There’s something nice about feeling completely at ease in your own apartment. I like never feeling like I’m in the way or I’m inconveniencing someone else. I like it when I’m not judged for doing ridiculous things like hanging pasta from our clothes rack next to my just-washed clothes. It’s okay when I say I’ll get to that mess in the morning, because I will, and it’s okay when he says he’ll take care of something, because he will. Mutual respect. How do you spot respect in someone you barely know?
A smarter person than me once told me that when it’s right it won’t feel like settling, even if it’s not exactly what you imagined. Well, that’s what I got out of it anyway. Maybe if that smart person had written it down for me I could properly quote it now, and feel more comforted.
So, I’m waiting. Potential roommates will come, interrupt my poorly-planned dinners, stroll through my beloved home, judge it, judge me, and leave.
If you are not this person, know that I have lots of lamb fat left and certainly will not make enough potatoes to run out anytime soon. Feel free. Make yourself at home.
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