One or two in a house of a few decide to make dinner. The announcement is made--via email or text--and cooking commences, usually later in the evening. Standard fare includes a salad, a carb (read: rice, potatoes, pasta-- in our case this evening, cous cous), a main, sometimes another veggie, and several bottles of wine. The quality varies--lets be honest, cooking ability does as well--but it's really the atmosphere that's the draw.
The roommates stand around while one or two chop the veggies or sautee the chicken and rehash their days. They talk about lazing about on an uneventful Monday; their grant proposal due midweek and their slacker coworkers that aren't contributing; that, instead of working, they spent 90 minutes designing an evite for the party the following weekend; the girl they saw in the elevator and the chat they had--not quite enough time to get to introductions-- butmaybe they'll write a missed connection?; the band that's playing on Friday night. the August trips in the works.
It's a weekly, sometimes more, ritual. And over time, you get to know people. Bonds are shared. Friends are made.
This is what I love about DC. There aren't many other cities where people live in group houses of five, six, sometimes seven people well into their late twenties (ahem, and depending on how long this lease lasts, early thirties). There a maybe a handful others-- San Francisco, Portland, Seattle-- where the design of the city--it's planning and residences--combined with economics (i.e. cost of living), create the conditions to this kind of social, communal living.
Most in other cities would scoff at living with five others at 30. Most everyone I know from college lives in their own place by this point. But not in DC, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Where else can I come home from work at 8:00 on a hot summer day, to find great company and great food waiting for me to wind down my day.
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