My Landlord Tried to Make Me Feed His Pregnant Wife for Free. I Maliciously Complied With His Own Lease.

The day I looked at the basement unit, he stood in the kitchen doorway and tapped the lease three times with his finger.

“This clause,” he said. “Food stays separate.”

His wife stood by the refrigerator and nodded. Their seven-year-old daughter sat on the floor, scraping the bottom of a yogurt cup with a spoon. He said it again: “You don’t touch our food. You feed yourself.” I said okay. The basement had a bedroom, a bathroom, and a small living area. The kitchen was upstairs, shared. When I moved in, I brought two pots, one knife, a box of spices, and a few bowls. Their cabinets held frozen burritos, TV dinners, and instant noodles. I put my spice box on the bottom shelf. The latch clicked.

The first night, I made shrimp Alfredo. Butter melted in the pan. Garlic went in. The shrimp turned pink. Pasta rolled in a second pot. I made enough for two. When I plated it, I paused. The kitchen was empty. The television was on upstairs. I took a bowl, filled half, and left it on the island. The landlord’s wife came down, hand on the railing. She smelled it and smiled. The landlord followed and twirled a forkful. The seven-year-old dipped bread into the sauce and licked her fingers. I washed the pan, wiped the counter, and packed the rest into a container. There were no dishes in the sink except mine. That night I thought it was over.

A few days later, I roasted salmon. Two pieces. One for dinner, one for lunch the next day. Cilantro-lime rice sat in the rice cooker. The skin crackled in the oven. I took the tray out, salted it, squeezed lime over the top. My phone buzzed. A text from the landlord: What do you think you’re doing? You cook only for yourself? My wife is pregnant. She smelled it and assumed you were making some for her. You opened the oven and there were two pieces of fish. You should have given her one. You live in our house. Be considerate. Don’t make me reconsider the lease.

I stood in the kitchen. The oven was still warm. A drop of lime juice sat on the counter. The refrigerator hummed. I found the clause in the lease, screenshotted it, and sent it back. Then I typed one line: Food stays separate. I’m following that. He didn’t reply. The next morning, I cooked one cup of rice and fried one egg. The wife came downstairs and stood at the bottom of the stairs, hand on her belly. She looked at my pan. I said, Morning. She said nothing.

Then I made an offer. I stood in the kitchen doorway and said: I’ll cook one family meal a week. You buy the ingredients. Take fifty dollars off my rent per meal. Four meals a month, two hundred off. I have restaurant experience. The landlord laughed. His wife laughed too, from the dining table. He said, You’re a tenant, not a chef. You live here, so act like a resident. I said, The lease only says food stays separate. He said, If you leave early, you pay. I turned to the last page. Sixty days, then month-to-month. I took a photo. That night I searched online for a small studio. I found one. East-facing window, small stove, but only I would use it.

They wanted separate food. I gave them separate food. I started cooking food that filled the house. Garlic short ribs, seared first, then braised until the cloves went soft. Hot honey fried chicken, chili powder and honey bubbling in the pan. On the weekend, coconut curry chicken. Onion, garlic, ginger chopped fine. Coconut milk poured in. Curry paste bloomed in the oil. The smell went through the kitchen door and up the stairs. I locked the mini fridge and the spice box. After cooking, I wiped the counter until there were no fingerprints, washed the pots, put the bowls away. One cup of rice. One piece of fish. One egg.

The wife stood at the stairs. She was pregnant. Her nose was sharper than anyone’s. When I pulled the tray out of the oven, she stared. The seven-year-old poked her head out from the living room and said, It smells so good. I said, Yours is in the fridge. Her mother pulled her away. The landlord pressed the microwave button. Ding. A frozen burrito rotated on the glass tray. He opened the kitchen door, then closed it. I packed the curry into a container and carried it downstairs. A little coconut milk smell stayed in the doorframe.

Twelve eggs in my fridge. Fourteen spice jars. I photographed the lease, the texts, the lock on my mini fridge. The studio was confirmed. I would move at the end of the month. In the last week, I made black pepper beef, one portion only. The wok hissed. The exhaust fan hummed. The wife coughed upstairs. I turned the flame down, plated it, and carried it away. The counter and sink were clean. The trash held only my own onion skins.

On moving day, I left the key on the island. Boxes stood by the door. The landlord stood in the living room and said, Now we have to find another tenant. I said, The lease is up. His wife looked over from the kitchen doorway, hand on her belly. She looked at my pots. I packed them into a box. The seven-year-old said, Will you still make the smelly-good food? I said, I will. The door closed.

The new kitchen is small. The window faces east. I cooked a bowl of noodles. One portion only. Water boiled. I dropped in the noodles and chopped scallions. I stood at the stove and heard a neighbor open a door. Not them. I carried the bowl to the table and sat down. I broke the chopsticks apart. There was no extra bowl.