I quote Oppenheimer... mostly because it's funny.

I have started a war with the woman who lives next door to me. 

I have never seen her before, though I have heard her talk to her boyfriend as I walk past her apartment.  Really, I know nothing about her beyond her voice - she might not even be a she.  But I'm pretty sure, based on her accent, that she's french.  Or spanish.  Or maybe italian. 

In any case, she's from one of those countries that is historically unable to win wars. Or remove unwanted body hair.  So it was perhaps ill-advised of her to start this little "police action" of hers, but start it she did.  She started it a few weeks ago, probably without even realizing it.  And she began by cooking salmon.

It was a basic smoked salmon, and the smell lingered in the hallway, twisting in the air every time I opened my door - a hint of the ocean, mixed with butter and a blend of herbs.  It was one of those aromas that makes one remember poolside barbecues, enjoying time spent with your family - while trying to pretend that you don't notice that your cousin looks really hot in that bikini... to put it simply, this salmon smelled delicious, and just a little sinful.

She followed this up the next day with a mystery dish that had a hint of jalapeno and heavy cheeses, a mexican fiesta... sans donkey show.  And later in the week, there was this brilliant french onion stew accompanied with actual swiss emmenthal.

Naturally, I couldn't let such a challenge pass.  So I started baking in response.  I made the most aromatic weapons of psychological culinary warfare - chocolate chip cookies one day, and cinnamon muffins the next.  Since I can't really eat the things I bake (damn you diabetes!), a lot of my results have been brought to work - after their delicious scent has faded a bit, of course.  My co-workers have been steadily gaining weight, to the point where we've had to enlarge the doors and invest in a freight elevator.

I then made up a hearty chili.  Followed by a thai stir fry.  And I've been making a huge variety of omelets every morning. A few days ago, I wanted to make myself a southwest spinach salad, but I decided against it simply because the smell it made wasn't strong enough.  I made a pan-seared peppered steak instead, with garlic mashed red potatoes and flash-fried broccoli. 

I'm debating buying a mini fan, and pointing it towards my front door, to better waft the scents over her way.  One hundred years ago, we used to waft mustard gas over the french countryside.  These days, it's a well-made hollandaise sauce. 

I call this progress. 

Delicious, delicious progress. 

She brought out the big guns tonight, though - fettucini alfredo, with a pepper boursin sauce.  The fact that I can smell the precise cheese she used, through the very walls, speaks to the sheer power of this woman's cooking.  She is the culinary equivalent of a sherman tank.  If I want to win this battle, I'm going to have to follow in the wake of my ancestors, and bring out the weapon to end all wars.

It's time to go nuclear. 

That's right - it's time to start cooking with curry.

For today I am become death, maker of samosas.