My Neighbour Asked Me to Stop Cooking Pongy FoodThen Things Got Interesting
I recently moved into a new flat in a terraced house in Manchester. My neighbours include a young family with two rowdy kids and a middle-aged woman named Margaret, who lives alone.
I assumed wed all get along swimminglyafter all, Id never had a cross word with neighbours before. But my optimism took a nosedive after a rather odd encounter with Margaret next door.
One Friday evening, as I was whipping up dinner, the doorbell rang. There stood Margaret, lips pursed, declaring that the «reek» of garlic from my kitchen had seeped through the wall and ruined her enjoyment of *Coronation Street*. She politely demanded I tone it down next time.
I was gobsmacked but bit my tongue, hoping the matter would blow over. A week later, I made my favourite spaghetti with chicken andyesgarlic. Lo and behold, my landlord knocked on my door, informing me of a complaint about «persistent whiffs.»
At first, I was miffed that Margaret had gone over my head. Then, I hatched a plan. The next time I cooked the same dish, I knocked on her door with a cheeky grin. «Maybe you were just jealous it smelled so good and fancied a bite?» I teased, handing her a plate.
She blinked, then surprised me by inviting me in. Over tea, she confessed that as a girl, shed adored garlic breadbut her late husband had hated the smell, so shed avoided it for years. My cooking had brought back memories, leaving her irritated at how shed sidelined her own tastes.
The next day, I found a note on my doorstep: «Bloody delicious. Cheers!» Now, I always save her a portion, and weve even attempted a few culinary disasters together. Turns out, a bit of garlicand humourcan go a long way.
