CHAPTER SIX
It had taken no time at all for me to become convinced that although I would gladly help Margot with grocery and cooking chores, she was the chef, not I. So far in our roommate experience, she had wowed me with her roast chicken, her ginger-turkey meatballs, her salmon in some kind of concoction of onions and red bell peppers that had been cooked until they were silky—the list was long.
"I did most of the cooking at home, back in Idaho," she told me when I waxed enthusiastic. "Who else? Mom would have burned the place down, she was that drunk most of the time. And my brothers were useless. Plus, it was a kind of offering to my dad. You know, like, ‘Leave me alone and I’ll make really good meals for you.’"
"Did that work?"
"Mostly. Whenever he tried anything, the next couple
