What the hell happens in Apt 1F?

The Tryping My Best Moment(s) of the Week #54

It’s hump day, my lovely paid subscribers. So, I’m here with a little pick-me-up or take-me-down, whatever you need on this very sunny and very warm (in NYC) day. 

It’s been a while since I’ve done a classic Tryping My Best Moment of the Week and I don’t know about you but I’ve missed them. Or something. And, wouldn’t you know it? I’ve had a few real tryping moments lately. So, I thought I’d share. Plus, if I don’t write these moments down, how am I supposed to remember them?? (I send them in text messages but ignore that fact. That is not relevant to this. It’s not something you need to know. …Stop asking!)

Without further ado, join me as I trip down memory lane, will you?

WHERE THERE’S SMOKE, THERE’S A DUMBASS IGNORING COMMON SENSE
As previously noted, I will always show up with a baked good if at all possible. After making a cake for a bachelorette, I was swimming in leftover women…er, ingredients…and I knew exactly how best to use them. Another cake! Of course. But, more importantly, I had the perfect place to take a dessert. To a Sunday hangout with my wonderful friend Sam and her delightful child (my best friend). 

I find that the most common ingredient I have leftover when baking is buttermilk. It’s always buttermilk. I buy a pint, because that’s what there is to buy, use a cup, and then spend three weeks thinking, “Hm. I should figure out something to do with that buttermilk.” Often, it ends up being buttermilk crepes that I never remember to rest overnight or this incredible Alison Roman brown butter buttermilk cake (found in her cookbook Dining In¹). 

I was determined to not show up with the same old buttermilk cake this time…mostly because I have definitely arrived at this friend’s house with that exact cake before. So, instead, I found a different buttermilk cake recipe—that is actually pretty close to Alison’s recipe—and made that instead. I did make a change to the recipe, however. It calls for a pecan topping. Well, I didn’t have any pecans and also didn’t want to do that so I decided to make a swap…which then, became my downfall.

About halfway through the baking time, I pulled out the cake and put on the topping as instructed. Except, I had swapped the pecans for cornflakes. Instead of a caramel-y pecan topping, it was a caramel-y cornflake topping. Here I must put in a recommendation for caramel-y cornflake stuff. It’s delicious. Trust me.

So, I pulled out the cake and carefully dumped the topping on. As I neared the end of the cornflake mixture, I realized that this topping made the cake tin very full. The thought that it could boil over crossed my mind. I stopped and pondered putting a sheet tray under the cake for the rest of the cooking time. Then I thought, “Eh. It’ll be okay.”

I suppose you can guess what happened next. It wasn’t okay. The caramel-y stuff definitely boiled over and I didn’t notice until almost the end of the cooking time. When I smelled the slightly burnt smell, I went to check the oven and a little cloud of smoke greeted me when I opened the door. And yet, with two minutes left on the timer, I thought, “Eh. It’ll be okay”...

…which is exactly about the time my smoke alarm starting going off. No problem. I grabbed my big stepladder and took it off the ceiling. I twisted it. I pushed a button on the front that said it would pause the beeping. I moved it towards the kitchen window which, yes, is right next to the oven so obviously, that didn’t work. It would not stop beeping. In between setting up a fan and opening all the windows, I kept trying to get the damn thing to turn off to no avail. Eventually, it would turn off for a moment and I would sigh a sigh of relief…only to have it start up again in a way that seemed 10x louder than when it had stopped. Finally, I just started yelling at it, “Stop! Stop! Everything is okay! It’s fine!” Not gonna lie, I made sure to say that loud enough so the people across the alley could hear, just to cover my bases.

Finally, I walked the smoke alarm into the bathroom and put it by that window which is where it finally stopped. 

Good news, the cake still tasted great.

The next moment comes the very next day.

NO! YOU’RE NOT INVITED TO THIS TINY MUSEUM
For the better part of three weeks, I was crafting my little heart out which meant my living room was a mess. When you live alone, no point in cleaning up until you’re done, right? My craft was a miniature; I had hopped on that train. Except, I made it from scratch and not from a kit. Which really just means, there was so much more detritus on my coffee table while I tried to decide what would work. 

The miniature, you ask? (Even if you didn’t, I’m going to tell you.) A tiny version of a little museum room. Here, I’ll show you:

On this aforementioned Monday, I was actually not so far from this finished product you see before you. But, I was in the middle of some of the items that required me to be hunched over my coffee table, alternating between exacto-knifing foam core and burning myself with hot glue. At one particularly burn-y moment, I looked up to see a cockroach scurrying into my living room. 

Now, I’m pretty lucky. That is not a common occurrence. I’d say I’ve seen just a few big ones in the whole five(ish) years I’ve been living in this apartment. On the whole, at least as far as I can tell, it’s not very bug-y in here. And I do tend to keep things pretty clean(ish). Regardless, whenever I see such a bug, I either stand completely still until I can figure out what to attack it with or I scream. 

I did. I screamed. Then, I went to my closet to get my bug killing weapon of choice: my big ass Doc Marten boots. The left one, if you’re curious. The problem was, by the time I did that, I had no idea where the damn thing had gone. Without thinking much about it, I threw myself to the ground and began searching. I spotted it pretty quick, against the wall with my tv and console. I kept my eyes on it, waiting for it to come out. Well, it snuck by me and into the kitchen, hiding behind my recycling bins. I took that opportunity to pull out my vacuum cleaner and try to suck it up which was, ultimately, unsuccessful. This cockroach came back into my living room and disappeared. Still in attack mode, I moved some of my sprawling craft supplies around and let out another little scream when I saw it under some foam core. It almost got away from me again then, heading back into the kitchen. But the kitchen was where it met its final end.

I’m not necessarily proud of this but, with most any kind of bug, I don’t just whack it once. I’ll whack that thing until I’m sure it’s dead. This cockroach was no exception. When I had confirmed my kill, I sat back down on my tiny couch to catch my breath and check the bruises on my knees. My adrenaline was high. My heart was racing. But I felt victorious.

Until I looked up and saw another cockroach racing through my living room. Yes, again, I let out a little bit louder scream and ran for my weapon. There was some chasing with this one but not nearly as much as the first. Ms. Cooper got it in the living room with the big old boot.

Then, Ms. Cooper sat back on the couch before actually cleaning up the gooey mess left behind. I was still freaked out, in all honesty. As I said before, I reallyyyyyy kill bugs but there was part of me that was still sure they would pull themselves back together and rise up against me. Don’t worry, I did clean them up. I also spent the next week tiptoeing around my own apartment like a weirdo. 

Sometimes I do wonder what other people in my building think of this lone late 30s person in the first floor apartment. With an uncontrollable fire alarm and a bunch of little screams over the course of two days, I’m guessing they think I’m a strange duckling. (They aren’t wrong.)

BUT WAIT! THERE’S (one) MORE!
The final tryping my best moment is a quick one. I was at the grocery store over the weekend, meandering through the frozen aisle. Popsicles were the name of the game. After staring at all the possibilities for a while, I finally picked some mid-level fruit ones. I opened the freezer door, picked up the box, and…it turned out all the popsicles had melted. All the juices fell right out of the bottom of the box to the floor. 

Not quite knowing what to do, I put the box back in the freezer and continued on with my shopping…kind of. Every time I saw a worker, I almost told them, chickening out at the last second. Finally, while checking out, I said, “Hey. Just a heads up. There’s a spill in the frozen aisle.”

Not me saying there is a spill while also not mentioning it was my fault in the first place. 

Also, I still don’t have any popsicles. (I want these melon ones from H Mart but I can’t go there because I spend too much money.) I even went to a different store last night and didn’t grab any. I feel like I have to do a certain amount of penance and so, here we are.

Hope these little moments from my life made you smile. I’m gonna go take a nap now.

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