When the neighbors cook

A bulb of garlic.
Image via Wikipedia

I’ve had 3 sets of downstairs neighbors since I moved in here. All nice enough people (as much as I knew of them) in their own ways.

But their cooking… well, that’s always been an issue.

My first neighbors were very nice, and older than dirt, and tended to cook a lot of dishes that included cabbage. Not exactly the most delicious smell to walk through on the way in the door after work, but it is what it is.

My next neighbors kept to themselves for the most part. If we had occasion to pass we would be friendly (but I noticed that they preferred not to bump into each other). They used a lot of onion and garlic and curry in their cooking. On my way in from work in the evening, their cooking dinner might make my stomach growl… but to be honest on a weekend morning, the pungent smells would often make me gag. I much prefer the scent of hazelnut coffee and perhaps a hint of cinnamon.

My new neighbors… well, I haven’t actually even bumped into them since they moved in. I hear them down there from time to time, but so far we haven’t gotten to know each other.

But they cook. Oh my, do they cook.  What wafts up to me is positively delectable.  It’s enough to make me hungry even if I’ve just eaten.

How many calories are in a sniff of whatever-that-is, I wonder.