During my twenties, I shared a house in Newlands, Cape Town, with three housemates. Among them was Dane—a really lovely, generally friendly person who unfortunately possessed a fierce temper if provoked. Her ultimate trigger was simple: anyone touching her food without asking.
One afternoon, I found myself alone in the kitchen making a sandwich. I assembled the ingredients, only to realize with disappointment that we were completely out of lettuce. Scanning the fridge, my eyes landed on Dane’s shelf. There, sitting inside a pristine Tupperware container, was a large, crisp head of lettuce.
She’ll never notice a single leaf, I thought, letting hunger override my better judgment.
I surreptitiously cracked open the lid and began peeling a piece away. Suddenly, I stopped. The leaf wasn't just textured—it was alive. The entire thing was wriggling with a miniature army of worms. Feeling a wave of disgust, I put it back, snapped the lid shut, and settled for a leaf-free sandwich.
The real complication, however, arrived the following day.
I walked into the lounge to find Dane happily relaxing on the couch, halfway through eating a massive sandwich of her own. To my horror, a large piece of lettuce was protruding from the crusts. I stood there, completely convinced I could see the edges of the green leaf subtly moving.
I wanted to tell her, but the calculus of the situation was brutal. If I spoke up, she would instantly realize I had been into her private Tupperware. The fierce Newlands temper would be unleashed on me.
Feeling extremely guilty, I chose to stay quiet. I left her to finish her meal in blissful, oblivious peace, keeping the secret of the kitchen fridge entirely to myself.
