Obviously I do what any other normal person does, which is move my sausage from the kitchen table (visible by the door) and hide it on the kitchen counter. I do this because I find it embarrassing to be eating by yourself even in your own apartment. This, I imagine, is what fat people do and I'd prefer to give off the idea that I'm on a strict Black Swan diet- nothing but chewing gum and a dream. Regardless...
The point is, I turn off my music, hide my sausage, and finally open the door to see who's knocking. It's then that I realize that I'm not wearing pants. This, surprisingly, is secondary to the story.
Standing in front of me is a small frail, tired looking woman in her mid 30s with streaky blonde hair. She's wearing a pink and purple sweat suit, but you can make your own judgment calls on that one (I did.) Next to her is a giant white dog. She is holding two trays full of raw peanut butter cookie dough.
She is my downstairs neighbor that I've only heard of in folklore from other tenants. She is bat shit crazy.
This is weird. It's weirder when she walks right into my apartment.
"Hi" I say, as she sweeps into my house, dog in tow.
"Hi." She starts to look around my apartment, at my half eaten sausage on the counter, and then settles her eyesight onto my groin.
"Oh, I forgot pants. Sorry."
She doesn't smile. Why am I apologizing to her? Why is she in my apartment? Seriously, where ARE my pants?
"I hope it's ok for the dog to be in here."
Luckily it is, the dog is cute, but this is already REALLY weird.
"My stove is broken, and I need to bake these, so I was wondering if I could use your stove."
She continues to tell me precisely what temperature the stove should be, for how long the cookies should be baked, and what color and thickness they appear when finished.
"Thanks."
She then grabs her giant dog and leaves.
And I'm left alone with a pan full of raw cookie dough and very intensive baking instructions.
Let me recap:
So basically I have to cook this woman's baked goods and the success of failure of these peanut butter cookies relies solely on me. Sorry, bitch... what?!
I look at the cookies, and then turn the dial on the stove like she said. And suddenly my panic is replaced with a really unwarranted sort of RAGE. These cookies, quite frankly, look really unsubstantial. Shitty, is more like it, they look haphazard and shittily made, with a stupid fork indentation in a criss-cross pattern on the top to make up for a certain amount of effort, but it's not fooling anyone. These are bullshit cookies.
Look, neighbor, if you wanna use my stove, that's totally cool. If she had run up here in a cocktail dress, heels, and a tray of canapes and frantically explained that in the middle of her dinner party the stove had stopped working and she HAD to get the amuse bouche on the table - then FINE. You can use my stove, and then leave to entertain your guests. I'll help you out, I'll cook it. (And not even REALLY, i remember one dinner party where the stove literally caught fire and I couldn't cook my kugel, but we made do.)
The fact is, I at least need to see some effort on your part. I at least need to see that you TRIED as much as you could before you decided to walk upstairs and inconvenience someone else. Leave me to finish baking your cheap tollhouse imitation peanut butter cookies?
Let me ask you a question, lady: How much work did you really put into these cookies? Because the only effort I see is unwrapping the sad log of tollhouse dough, plopping it unceremonially onto a baking sheet, and calling it a day. This is unacceptable.
I call my sister to give me advice on how to handle this situation, but my sister has the rare gift of ignoring all my concerns and focusing on new parts of my problems that give me even greater anxiety:
"What did she look like?" she says
"I dunno, that's not the point. Um... young, ratty hair. Sweat pants."
"Sweat pants? She sounds like a clinger."
My sister informs me that this woman is either looking for a hot young lover, a new best friend, or is completely ready to slice me open and feed me to her dog. The latter makes me the most nervous, although the thought of listening to her banal problems or initiating any sort of sexual act with the woman is almost as horrifying.
"Stand OUT IN THE HALL. Put them on a trivet by the door. Knock and then stand on the first step: DO NOT GO IN," my sister warns.
Which would work if I had anything resembling a trivet in my kitchen.
"Cooling rack?"
Please.
Finally the cookies are done and I get some pot holders out and prepare to bring them downstairs. This time I put some pants on. I exit my apartment, making sure to lock the front door in case this whole thing is a sting operation and she has agents stationed in the staircase to go in and steal my shit while I'm delivering these peanut butter cookies to her. I know, I know, but after the conversation with my sister, anything and everything is up for grabs.
"Come in."
I don't. This is how people get killed; they walk into unsuspecting houses with trays of cooling baked goods, the last thing they remember is a chlorophyll soaked rag and for the next ten years they're working in a white slavery ring somewhere on the outskirts of Mumbai.
She opens the door and grabs the scalding hot plates with her bare hands. It is a staggering feat.
"Oh thanks. You want one?" she asks.
She stares at me and I stare at her. The plates are scalding hot but she doesn't flinch. She doesn't even blink.
"I do," I say, giving in to the intolerable pressure. BUT I DON'T! A novice mistake. Slowly I take a cookie from the tray and she proceeds to watch me eat it.
It's poison, I think, keep it stored in your cheeks and spit it out when she closes the door.
But I don't. I swallow it. It's pretty delicious.
"Thanks again," she says. "You're the best baker."
Then she shuts the door, and I walk back upstairs into my apartment to decompress.
I'm left with a lot of questions:
Why does this woman not have a functioning oven? Peanut butter cookies are fine and simple, but what if this becomes a trend? What if she needs something souffled, or brings up a tray of delicately sugared puff pastries? What if the rest of her appliances fail and she leaves me in charge to freeze her ice trays or thaw her chicken? And why do I feel responsible for the success or failure of all these endeavors that have nothing to do with me?
I tell you why I feel responsible:
Because I'm a good fucking neighbor.
The point is, I turn off my music, hide my sausage, and finally open the door to see who's knocking. It's then that I realize that I'm not wearing pants. This, surprisingly, is secondary to the story.
Standing in front of me is a small frail, tired looking woman in her mid 30s with streaky blonde hair. She's wearing a pink and purple sweat suit, but you can make your own judgment calls on that one (I did.) Next to her is a giant white dog. She is holding two trays full of raw peanut butter cookie dough.
She is my downstairs neighbor that I've only heard of in folklore from other tenants. She is bat shit crazy.
This is weird. It's weirder when she walks right into my apartment.
"Hi" I say, as she sweeps into my house, dog in tow.
"Hi." She starts to look around my apartment, at my half eaten sausage on the counter, and then settles her eyesight onto my groin.
"Oh, I forgot pants. Sorry."
She doesn't smile. Why am I apologizing to her? Why is she in my apartment? Seriously, where ARE my pants?
"I hope it's ok for the dog to be in here."
Luckily it is, the dog is cute, but this is already REALLY weird.
"My stove is broken, and I need to bake these, so I was wondering if I could use your stove."
She continues to tell me precisely what temperature the stove should be, for how long the cookies should be baked, and what color and thickness they appear when finished.
"Thanks."
She then grabs her giant dog and leaves.
And I'm left alone with a pan full of raw cookie dough and very intensive baking instructions.
Let me recap:
So basically I have to cook this woman's baked goods and the success of failure of these peanut butter cookies relies solely on me. Sorry, bitch... what?!
I look at the cookies, and then turn the dial on the stove like she said. And suddenly my panic is replaced with a really unwarranted sort of RAGE. These cookies, quite frankly, look really unsubstantial. Shitty, is more like it, they look haphazard and shittily made, with a stupid fork indentation in a criss-cross pattern on the top to make up for a certain amount of effort, but it's not fooling anyone. These are bullshit cookies.
Look, neighbor, if you wanna use my stove, that's totally cool. If she had run up here in a cocktail dress, heels, and a tray of canapes and frantically explained that in the middle of her dinner party the stove had stopped working and she HAD to get the amuse bouche on the table - then FINE. You can use my stove, and then leave to entertain your guests. I'll help you out, I'll cook it. (And not even REALLY, i remember one dinner party where the stove literally caught fire and I couldn't cook my kugel, but we made do.)
The fact is, I at least need to see some effort on your part. I at least need to see that you TRIED as much as you could before you decided to walk upstairs and inconvenience someone else. Leave me to finish baking your cheap tollhouse imitation peanut butter cookies?
Let me ask you a question, lady: How much work did you really put into these cookies? Because the only effort I see is unwrapping the sad log of tollhouse dough, plopping it unceremonially onto a baking sheet, and calling it a day. This is unacceptable.
I call my sister to give me advice on how to handle this situation, but my sister has the rare gift of ignoring all my concerns and focusing on new parts of my problems that give me even greater anxiety:
"What did she look like?" she says
"I dunno, that's not the point. Um... young, ratty hair. Sweat pants."
"Sweat pants? She sounds like a clinger."
My sister informs me that this woman is either looking for a hot young lover, a new best friend, or is completely ready to slice me open and feed me to her dog. The latter makes me the most nervous, although the thought of listening to her banal problems or initiating any sort of sexual act with the woman is almost as horrifying.
"Stand OUT IN THE HALL. Put them on a trivet by the door. Knock and then stand on the first step: DO NOT GO IN," my sister warns.
Which would work if I had anything resembling a trivet in my kitchen.
"Cooling rack?"
Please.
Finally the cookies are done and I get some pot holders out and prepare to bring them downstairs. This time I put some pants on. I exit my apartment, making sure to lock the front door in case this whole thing is a sting operation and she has agents stationed in the staircase to go in and steal my shit while I'm delivering these peanut butter cookies to her. I know, I know, but after the conversation with my sister, anything and everything is up for grabs.
"Come in."
I don't. This is how people get killed; they walk into unsuspecting houses with trays of cooling baked goods, the last thing they remember is a chlorophyll soaked rag and for the next ten years they're working in a white slavery ring somewhere on the outskirts of Mumbai.
She opens the door and grabs the scalding hot plates with her bare hands. It is a staggering feat.
"Oh thanks. You want one?" she asks.
She stares at me and I stare at her. The plates are scalding hot but she doesn't flinch. She doesn't even blink.
"I do," I say, giving in to the intolerable pressure. BUT I DON'T! A novice mistake. Slowly I take a cookie from the tray and she proceeds to watch me eat it.
It's poison, I think, keep it stored in your cheeks and spit it out when she closes the door.
But I don't. I swallow it. It's pretty delicious.
"Thanks again," she says. "You're the best baker."
Then she shuts the door, and I walk back upstairs into my apartment to decompress.
I'm left with a lot of questions:
Why does this woman not have a functioning oven? Peanut butter cookies are fine and simple, but what if this becomes a trend? What if she needs something souffled, or brings up a tray of delicately sugared puff pastries? What if the rest of her appliances fail and she leaves me in charge to freeze her ice trays or thaw her chicken? And why do I feel responsible for the success or failure of all these endeavors that have nothing to do with me?
I tell you why I feel responsible:
Because I'm a good fucking neighbor.
-Max
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