Chapter no 7

The Rosie Project (Don Tillman, #1)

“Wow, Mr. Neat. How come there are no pictures on the walls?”

I had not had visitors since Daphne moved out of the building. I knew that I only needed to put out an extra plate and cutlery. But it had already been a stressful evening, and the adrenaline-induced euphoria that had immediately followed the Jacket Incident had evaporated, at least on my part. Rosie seemed to be in a permanently manic state.

We were in the living area, which adjoins the kitchen.

“Because after a while I would stop noticing them. e human brain is wired to focus on diﬀerences in its environment—so it can rapidly discern a predator. If I installed pictures or other decorative objects, I would notice them for a few days and then my brain would ignore them. If I want to see art, I go to the gallery. e paintings there are of higher quality, and the total expenditure over time is less than the purchase price of cheap posters.” In fact, I had not been to an art gallery since the tenth of May, three years before. But this information would weaken my argument and I saw no reason to share it with Rosie and open up other aspects of my personal life to interrogation.

Rosie had moved on and was now examining my CD collection. e investigation was becoming annoying. Dinner was already late.

“You really love Bach,” she said. is was a reasonable deduction, as my CD collection consists only of the works of that composer. But it was not correct.

“I decided to focus on Bach after reading Gödel, Escher, Bach by Douglas Hofstadter. Unfortunately I haven’t made much progress. I don’t think my brain works fast enough to decode the patterns in the music.”

“You don’t listen to it for fun?”

is was beginning to sound like the initial dinner conversations with Daphne and I didn’t answer.

“You’ve got an iPhone?” she said.

“Of course, but I don’t use it for music. I download podcasts.” “Let me guess—on genetics.”

“Science in general.”

I moved to the kitchen to begin dinner preparation and Rosie followed me, stopping to look at my whiteboard schedule.

“Wow,” she said, again. is reaction was becoming predictable. I wondered what her response to DNA or evolution would be.

I commenced retrieval of vegetables and herbs from the refrigerator. “Let me help,” she said. “I can chop or something.” e implication was that chopping could be done by an inexperienced person unfamiliar with the recipe. After her comment that she was unable to cook even in a life-threatening situation, I had visions of huge chunks of leek and fragments of herbs too ﬁne to sieve out.

“No assistance is required,” I said. “I recommend reading a book.”

I watched Rosie walk to the bookshelf, brieﬂy peruse the contents, then walk away. Perhaps she used IBM rather than Apple software, although many of the manuals applied to both.

e sound system has an iPod port that I use to play podcasts while I cook. Rosie plugged in her phone, and music emanated from the speakers. It was not loud, but I was certain that if I had put on a podcast without asking permission when visiting someone’s house, I would have been accused of a social error. Very certain, as I had made this exact mistake at a dinner party four years and sixty-seven days ago.

Rosie continued her exploration, like an animal in a new environment, which of course was what she was. She opened the blinds and raised them, creating some dust. I consider myself fastidious in my cleaning, but I do not need to open the blinds and there must have been dust in places not reachable without doing so. Behind the blinds are doors, and Rosie released the bolts and opened them.

I was feeling very uncomfortable at this violation of my personal environment. I tried to concentrate on food preparation as Rosie stepped out of sight onto the balcony. I could hear her dragging the two big potted plants, which presumably were dead after all these years. I put the herb and

vegetable mixture in the large saucepan with the water, salt, rice wine vinegar, mirin, orange peel, and coriander seeds.

“I don’t know what you’re cooking,” Rosie called out, “but I’m basically vegetarian.”

Vegetarian! I had already commenced cooking! Based on ingredients purchased on the assumption that I would be eating alone. And what did “basically” mean? Did it imply some limited level of ﬂexibility, like my colleague Esther, who admitted, only under rigorous questioning, that she would eat pork if necessary to survive?

Vegetarians and vegans can be incredibly annoying. Gene has a joke: “How can you tell if someone is a vegan? Just wait ten minutes and they’ll tell you.” If this were so, it would not be so much of a problem. No! Vegetarians arrive for dinner and then say, “I don’t eat meat.” is was the second time. e Pig’s Trotter Disaster had happened six years ago, when Gene suggested that I invite a woman to dinner at my apartment. He argued that my cooking expertise would make me more desirable and I would not have to deal with the pressure of a restaurant environment. “And you can drink as much as you like and stagger to the bedroom.”

e woman’s name was Bethany, and her Internet proﬁle did not mention vegetarianism. Realizing that the quality of the meal would be critical, I borrowed a recently published book of “nose to tail” recipes from the library and planned a multicourse meal featuring various parts of the animal: brains, tongue, mesentery, pancreas, kidneys, etc.

Bethany arrived on time and seemed very pleasant. We had a glass of wine, and then things went downhill. We started with fried pig’s trotter, which had been quite complex to prepare, and Bethany ate very little of hers.

“I’m not big on pig’s trotters,” she said. is was not entirely unreasonable: we all have preferences and perhaps she was concerned about fat and cholesterol. But when I outlined the courses to follow, she declared herself to be a vegetarian. Unbelievable!

She oﬀered to buy dinner at a restaurant, but having spent so much time in preparation, I did not want to abandon the food. I ate alone and did not see Bethany again.

Now Rosie. In this case it might be a good thing. Rosie could leave and life would return to normal. She had obviously not ﬁlled in the questionnaire honestly, or Gene had made an error. Or possibly he had

selected her for her high level of sexual attractiveness, imposing his own preferences on me.

Rosie came back inside, looking at me, as if expecting a response. “Seafood is okay,” she said. “If it’s sustainable.”

I had mixed feelings. It is always satisfying to have the solution to a problem, but now Rosie would be staying for dinner. I walked to the bathroom, and Rosie followed. I picked up the lobster from the bath, where it had been crawling around.

“Oh shit,” said Rosie.

“You don’t like lobster?” I carried it back to the kitchen. “I love lobster but . . .”

e problem was now obvious and I could sympathize. “You ﬁnd the killing process unpleasant. Agreed.”

I put the lobster in the freezer and explained to Rosie that I had researched lobster-execution methods, and the freezer method was considered the most humane. I gave her a website reference.

While the lobster died, Rosie continued her sniﬃng around. She opened the pantry and seemed impressed with its level of organization: one shelf for each day of the week, plus storage spaces for common resources, alcohol, breakfast, etc., and stock data on the back of the door.

“You want to come and sort out my place?”

“You want to implement the Standardized Meal System?” Despite its substantial advantages, most people consider it odd.

“Just cleaning out the refrigerator would do,” she said. “I’m guessing you want Tuesday ingredients?”

I informed her that, as today was Tuesday, no guessing was required.

She handed me the nori sheets and bonito ﬂakes. I requested macadamia nut oil, sea salt, and the pepper grinder from the common resources area.

“Chinese rice wine,” I added. “Filed under alcohol.” “Naturally,” said Rosie.

She passed me the wine, then began looking at the other bottles in the alcohol section. I purchase my wine in half bottles.

“So, you cook this same meal every Tuesday, right?”

“Correct.” I listed the eight major advantages of the Standardized Meal System.

No need to accumulate recipe books.
Standard shopping list—hence very eﬃcient shopping.
Almost zero waste—nothing in the refrigerator or pantry unless required for one of the recipes.
Diet planned and nutritionally balanced in advance.
No time wasted wondering what to cook.
No mistakes, no unpleasant surprises.
Excellent food, superior to most restaurants at a much lower price (see point 3).
Minimal cognitive load required.

“Cognitive load?”

“e cooking procedures are in my cerebellum—virtually no conscious eﬀort is required.”

“Like riding a bike.” “Correct.”

“You can make lobster whatever without thinking?”

“Lobster, mango, and avocado salad with wasabi-coated ﬂying ﬁsh roe and crispy seaweed and deep-fried leek garnish. Correct. My current project is quail boning. It still requires conscious eﬀort.”

Rosie was laughing. It brought back memories of school days. Good ones.

As I retrieved additional ingredients for the dressing from the refrigerator, Rosie brushed past me with two half bottles of Chablis and put them in the freezer with the lobster.

“Our dinner seems to have stopped moving.”

“Further time is required to be certain of death,” I said. “Unfortunately, the Jacket Incident has disrupted the preparation schedule. All times will need to be recalculated.” I realized at this point that I should have put the lobster in the freezer as soon as we arrived home, but my brain had been overloaded by the problems created by Rosie’s presence. I went to the whiteboard and started writing up revised preparation times. Rosie was examining the ingredients.

“You were going to eat all this by yourself?”

I had not revised the Standardized Meal System since Daphne’s departure, and now ate the lobster salad by myself on Tuesdays, deleting the wine to compensate for the additional calorie intake.

“e quantity is suﬃcient for two,” I said. “e recipe can’t be scaled down. It’s infeasible to purchase a fraction of a live lobster.” I had intended the last part as a mild joke, and Rosie reacted by laughing. I had another unexpected moment of feeling good as I continued recalculating times.

Rosie interrupted again. “If you were on your usual schedule, what time would it be now?”

“Six thirty-eight p.m.”

e clock on the oven showed 9:09 p.m. Rosie located the controls and started adjusting the time. I realized what she was doing. A perfect solution. When she was ﬁnished, it showed 6:38 p.m. No recalculations required. I congratulated her on her thinking. “You’ve created a new time zone. Dinner will be ready at eight ﬁfty-ﬁve p.m.—Rosie time.”

“Beats doing the math,” she said.

Her observation gave me an opportunity for another Wife Project question. “Do you ﬁnd mathematics diﬃcult?”

She laughed. “It’s only the single hardest part of what I do. Drives me nuts.”

If the simple arithmetic of bar and restaurant bills was beyond her, it was hard to imagine how we could have meaningful discussions.

“Where do you hide the corkscrew?” she asked. “Wine is not scheduled for Tuesdays.”

“Fuck that,” said Rosie.

ere was a certain logic underlying Rosie’s response. I would only be eating a single serving of dinner. It was the ﬁnal step in the abandonment of the evening’s schedule.

I announced the change. “Time has been redeﬁned. Previous rules no longer apply. Alcohol is hereby declared mandatory in the Rosie Time Zone.”