Living with someone teaches you a lot of patience, compromise and in my case onion negotiations.
My roommate doesn’t eat onions. Not that he’s allergic. Not that he’s trying a special diet. He just doesn’t like them. At all.
He cooks every meal without them—stews, jollof rice, soups—you name it, and somehow, he makes it work. No onions. And the funny thing? He’s totally fine with the taste.
Now me? I love onions. The aroma of sautéed onions is therapy. So when it’s my turn to cook, of course I add them—chopped, sliced, sometimes blended.
But here’s where it gets hilarious. He’ll pick them out. One by one. Every single piece. Like a surgeon on a mission. Sometimes I think he enjoys the hunt more than the meal.
I've learned to respect it though. It’s become part of our rhythm. I cook, he dodges onions. He cooks, I adjust my expectations.
In the end, we both eat. And that’s the beauty of cohabiting—finding balance in the most unexpected places. Even in a plate of onion-infested rice.