What the Heck Is That?! – Vintage Recipe Ridicule

 

Planter Rick

I know someone who, whenever they got drunk, did something so absurdly weird yet so unintentionally hilarious that you couldn’t even be mad. I won’t say who, so let’s call this person Rick.

Back when I lived in Brooklyn, a group of us would go out to the bars every weekend. And Rick? Rick was that friend. The one who laughed so hard he folded in half like a busted beach chair. The one who did random nonsense out of nowhere, like his brain had a “Surprise Me” button.

Living in Brooklyn, we walked everywhere unless it was more than half a mile away. So one night, after the bars closed at 4 AM (yes, FOUR — Brooklyn nightlife is built different), Rick decided to do something none of us saw coming.

Picture Bay Ridge: rows of private homes, each with a few steps leading up to a cement porch, and on top of those steps? Cement flowerpots. Heavy. Filled with dirt. Filled with plants. Filled with responsibility.

Rick took one.

Not like “picked it up to admire it.” No.

He stole the entire planter like he was auditioning for Ocean’s Eleven: The Gardening Edition.

The next morning, he woke up to find it sitting on the rug in front of his TV like a decorative hostage. He scratched his head, confused, because he didn’t remember taking it.

We told him:

“Rick… you took it home with you. Laughing the entire way. You were giggling like a cartoon villain.” He didn’t believe us, but he shrugged and said he was keeping it.

And then… It became a hobby.

Over the next few weeks, Rick collected planters like Pokémon. He had at least five. Five cement porch planters sitting in his living room like a botanical crime museum.

He watered them (sometimes), but they weren’t getting enough light on the floor of his apartment, so the plants slowly died like they were in witness protection. 

Then one day, Rick woke up and decided he was going to return them.

At 2 AM. Because of course.

He loaded them into his car like he was transporting illegal produce and drove back to the block he always walked down. One by one, he placed planters on porches that didn’t have any. He didn’t know if they were the right houses. He didn’t know if the planters matched. He didn’t know if he was restoring order or creating horticultural chaos.

He was basically the Reverse Porch Bandit.

When he finished, he started laughing hysterically — the silent, doubled‑over, no‑air-coming-out kind of laugh that makes you think someone needs medical attention.

We asked what was so funny, and he (through his laughter) said:

“Can you imagine waking up every day and your planters keep disappearing… and then one day you walk outside and they’re BACK? Like the universe said; my bad?”

We all lost it. Rick’s laughter was contagious - the kind that made you laugh even if you didn’t know what the joke was. And that was the saga of Planter Rick, the only man I’ve ever known who accidentally ran a one‑man planter redistribution program across Bay Ridge.