|From Trousering Your Weasel|
Marijuana is now legal in a couple of states (smoked and baked), and close to legal in several others, where it is relabeled “medicalmarijuana” and available to all who suffer from medical conditions such as chronic sobriety. There’s a problem in the flat-out legal states. The drug can be purchased in ingestible treats such as brownies, and apparently some people are a little confused about the proper dose. The drug effect of marijuana is delayed when it is eaten, as opposed to when it is smoked. So a person could have eaten way too many brownies by the time she realizes the stuff is working after all, and then it’s too late.
That’s how it is with getting stoned. You don’t suddenly recognize that you’re stoned; you recognize that you’ve been stoned for, like, five minutes. It’s like sticking your foot in scalding bathwater. You know you’re in trouble, but it takes a second for the pain to hit your brain (or longer, if you’re really tall). “This is going to hurt,” you have time to say to yourself as you pull your foot out, and you’re always right. If you’ve eaten too many brownies, it could begin to dawn on you that you’re in trouble and there’s nothing you can do about it.
So some dispensaries are putting warning labels on their pot brownies. Take a little bite, they say, and wait an hour to see how it’s going. Well, no one does that with brownies. They should put the stuff in okra if they wanted people to be prudent.
Weed wasn’t very strong when I was a kid. You were going to have to soldier through a pretty fat joint before any effect became noticeable. What with all the pauses to hack your lungs out, you could pretty much keep track of your mental state and adjust your intake accordingly.
Within a few years, though, folks were getting sophisticated about their growing techniques. Instead of buying a baggie of leaves, you’d buy a sticky bud, a tiny packet of trouble. For me, it acted like a little seed of panic, set to sprout in about a half hour. Call me a gardener, but I kept planting that seed, figuring I’d get a blossom of fun this time. I was not that bright.
Anyway, the last time I had pot brownies, it wasn’t made with the Good Stuff. We were just being thrifty. One day we took everything that was hanging around in the corners of shoeboxes, knocked out of the cover to the White Album, the contents of leftover roaches; seeds and stems and lint balls and things that might have been pot but might have been oregano or spiders or little mousie nests. Who knew? In it went, into the pan with the Betty Crocker brownie mix, and we had at it. They did not taste like brownies. They tasted like shit. The same culinary thrill could have been had by dicing up peat. Moderation was never much of a watchword for us, and we polished off half the pan looking for that elusive chocolate taste.
Then we went to dinner. At my mother-in-law’s house.
Where, somewhere into my third bite of leftover turkey, everything started going sideways.
Turkey is not a moist meat under the best of circumstances. Reheated turkey has the constitution of dentists’ cotton wads. All my saliva had retreated to parts unknown, even before the turkey. After I’d been masticating for a couple minutes without being able to swallow, it occurred to me that I looked suspicious, so I sawed off another bit of turkey and wedged that in alongside the first. A few minutes later I did it again. My mouth was now solid turkey wall-to-wall and evidently I was a little green, too. My sister-in-law, who was a take-charge person, saved the day. She leveled an authoritative index finger at me and said “Murr, you’re sick. Go lie down.” I had never loved her more.
Dave was persuaded to take me home. We got all the way there before it occurred to either of us to spit out our turkey. Or, rather, peel it off the roofs of our mouths and drop it in the shrubbery.
I don’t know if that was the last time I had pot. It might have been. But I’m not sure, because one incident like that will erase memories of things you haven’t even done yet.
Loved "erase memories of things you haven't even done yet". Definitely an anti-drug person, though not in favor of incarcerating drug users at all for simply using drugs.
I'm pretty dang fond of beer, both the taste and the drug effect–I admit it–but almost every other drug has it in for me.
I recently discovered moscato d'Asti, mmmmm, veRy good stuphph.
This is gold!
I know you must have felt awful at the time (pretty clear from your post, really) but you made me laugh in my favourite of ways, hunched over, tears leaking from eyes squeezed shut, and shaking with the giggles. Thank you!
My pleasure, my dear. You may now unhunch.
Ah, yes, the last time memories. If you want a collection for your next book I'm sure your readers have them all. Let me know.
I swear I don't always know if my memories are even mine, or are someone else's.
OMG, you still had the turkey in your mouth! I am still Laughing Out Loud.
Well it wasn't going anywhere on its own. It required physical intervention.
The "okra" suggestion did me in giving me the total giggles. Brilliant solution. This was one funny post.
Who am I kidding? We would've overdone on okra too.
Love the illustration!! I'd have to put the pot in some undercooked liver to get me to be prudent. Everything else just sounds delicious.
Not delicious. Effective. Not delicious.
Now there is a novel way to get children to eat their vegies… Back in the day I liked it. These days you could use me as a sniffer dog. The slightest hint of it makes me want to puke.
What happened to us, E. C.?
We now have medical marijuana here in Maine… Wonder if I can get a prescription because i am old?
Shoot yes, that's the worst diagnosis of them all. And it's not "medical marijuana." It's "medicalmarijuana."
I am reminded of the great Kinks' lyric:
"Oh demon alcohol!
Sad memories I can't recall."
And yes, I've been to Vancouver! Woo hoo!
Seriously? My friends and I just cruised up and down the Oregon coast and we cranked up that very (little-known) song and sang along!
Also too. pot brownie on Mardi Gras noonish… at 1PM ate another; at 5 PM, was still glued to a chair on somebody's patio just off St Charles Ave!
The glue aspects are well documented.
Two words for pot chefs: Spaghetti sauce.
I am beginning to expect some expertise on your part.
And that, boys and girls, is why I only ingested pot brownies once. At least with smoking, by the time the jay got back around to you, you had a pretty good idea of what effect the first hit had, and could make decisions accordingly. Sort of.
Exactly. Plus, our stuff wasn't designed to kill you.
I've never had pot in my life and don't plan to start now. I like my brownies chocolate flavoured, with no contaminations.
Your brownies will be the best in town. Or in Washington State, anyhow.
Came across your blog through Pearl's. Interesting, I've been thinking of doing a similar post. Nearing 70, I'm retired in Montana, my kids and grand's are in Seattle, where pot is now legal, do a degree.
I'm not unfamiliar with the substance, and know exactly what the unfolded White Album cover was used for back then. I only tried eating it once, back around 1970, we had no idea it needed to be cooked….opened some Oreo's, patted it on and choked them down. Alas, nothing occurred.
The pot of today is a far stretch from buying a lid 45 years ago, eh?
I don't think it needed to be cooked. It just needed to be better than it probably was. Personally, I miss the weak stuff.
Several months ago, my back pain was so out of control, and my doctor so unhelpful, that I broke down and begged my kids for a puff from the stash. I got a little buzzed, and lovely pain relief for a few hours. Should have stopped there. Tried it again in another moment of desperation, and I dont know what was different, but holy shit it was strong. My heart pounded so hard I thought I was a goner.
I know, right? Stuff is nasty now. BTW: Pete Egoscue, Pain Free: Revolutionary New Way To Stop Chronic Pain. (Fire your doctor and DIY.)
Murr's right (as usual). This is a GREAT book! There are also DVDs with the Egoscue Pain Free method that are very helpful.
Also, this post made my husband cringe. Whenever he hears me laughing at a blog post, he knows I am gonna share.
I get that, but why the cringing? 🙂
It used to be more of a social event and you kept rolling 'em until everyone was happy. A few years back on a jaunt across the (Canadian) border someone passed me a joint and I graciously accepted. I was glued to the chair for a few hours before I could stand and function again. I suspect the stuff is a lot stronger these days, but I was years out of practice, also.
Practice makes parfait, or some other shapeless, gooey item.
I'm with you in favoring beer over all other mind-alterers. I actually only ever have had pot three times, simply because it left me feeling, "Meh. I passed up beer for this experience?"
I can't tell you just how much "meh" is a better experience than my experience.
Today's stuff doesn't bliss me out, either. I have to get there by thinking happy thoughts, or engaging in positive real-life experiences. Who knew?
I know. I pulled myself out of the abyss (over time) with a stellar hike with my Dad and a Sing-Your-Own-Messiah. I remembered what joy was.
I know about Sing-Your-Own-Messiah, but somehow I got a vision of you with a box from Ikea and instructions that are perfectly intelligible in Danish but do not translate well. And a Messiah with his ass on upside down.