So, here’s the thing guys. I vacuumed my apartment twice in seven days this past week.
That’s approximately…the equivalent of pigs flying.
Or of hell freezing over.
Or of me ever eating animal flesh again.
Or of one of my experiments ever working out in any predictable way.
If you, like me, are craving a dish that tastes like the tropics but will still keep you warm in this cold weather then head on over to Marcus Samuelsson’s blog to check out my post on this Peruvian Bean Bowl!
Last night, fate threw me a surprise birthday party. Three weeks early.
There was no cake, no streamers, no trick candles.
Just me, in my apartment. Stress-eating cherry cordial Hershey’s kisses as I watched water seep into my kitchen through the floor that adjoins the hallway. (Not even through the space under my kitchen door, mind you, but through the walls themselves!! What is that about?) Hoping against hope that the problem was fixed before the water reached my bedroom because, while I love the kitchen very much, it has a tile floor, whereas my bedroom has carpeting. Ugly carpeting, mind you, but carpeting that I don’t particularly care to have ripped up any time soon (especially since the student housing people are just going to put in new ugly carpeting and not anything even remotely aesthetically pleasing).
Actually, I’ve been a bit deceiving because it wasn’t really just me. Every inhabitant of the east side of my building, on all fifteen floors, was in attendance! Apparently a main water pipe broke in the stairwell on the fifteenth floor and that’s pretty much what caused all hell to break loose. The higher up floors had it really bad. Like, three to four inches of water in their whole apartment bad. I live on the fifth floor and have never been quite so grateful for that.
I am also grateful for the fact that it was the pipe for the sprinkler system that broke and not the one for sewage. Because I have quite a serious number of pints of ice cream in my freezer and if it had been the latter, they would all be gone this morning. All six of them. Into my belly.
And for wet-vacs. For obvious reasons.
I never really intended to be that food blogger who shoves red velvet everything into your face not only days, but weeks before the-day-that-shall-not-be-named.
But life takes funny turns sometimes. And when red velvet macs are put in front of us the second-to-last week in January (with the promise of more buttermilk/cocoa/vinegar/red food coloring-infused treats to come)…we just have to sigh with some kind of exaggerated exasperation. And,
{begrudgingly},
make room in our hearts bellies.
Yes, I know. What a rough life we lead.
Being alone with your thoughts in Central Park at night in 15 degree (but-feels-like-2) weather while wearing five layers of clothing and a pair of foot warmers on your hands is, well. Interesting.
There you are on a park bench, surrounded by the coats and bags of the members of your running group, which you are supposed to be watching, blasting Nicki Minaj from your phone so that you feel less vulnerably alone (and so that any predator-like homeless people will be scared away. Nicki is a force, people, not to be reckoned with). Just. Thinking.
Primarily you’re wondering whether you hear any suspicious characters lurking around any and every corner. Which then, of course, leads you to ponder what your mother would think if she knew where you were. (Conclusion – she would not be pleased. Then again, neither are your toes, which are now reaching varying degrees of numb…so really, who could blame her?)
Sometimes, you really are too dedicated for your own good.
And it’s quite satisfying.
So, The.Boy. and I are going to be apart for Superbowl Sunday this year.
Apparently, this is, like, a big deal.
Or something.
Welcome to Eats Well With Others, where we take a vegetable-and-cupcake laden approach to life (always with a bit of laughter on the side)!
