Whitewater-Rafting (At the Kitchen table)

Whitewater-Rafting (At the Kitchen Table)

May I be candid about edibles, here? I like ‘em. 

I like them the way cops like doughnuts: in any way, shape or form I can get them. I went through a “phase” when I was baking my own home-grown, gluten-free, oatmeal cookies, and then rationing them out for the next couple of weeks, er, week…dang…days, whatever, and life kind of felt like I was whitewater-rafting.

Coincidentally, during this same time span, I was diagnosed as being bipolar. I did not glide placidly down Acceptance River for a minute or two there, but there was no doubt that the froth began to subside at the same time as the cookies disappeared.

Weird, I know.

Now I stick mostly to my bong, or a doobster, and the raft pretty much straddles the center of the river, except for those times when I find myself at a cannabis farmers market, or the Emerald Cup. I like the occasional shift of pace from my raft to an engine-powered vehicle, so I am always on the lookout for one type of edible, chocolates.

That doesn’t mean that the graciously accepted samples of many cherished friends, will be ignored-perish the thought! I take my responsibilities seriously, so I will enjoy each and every one of them. When I am pursuing my own interests, however, it has got to be chocolate. 

Thus it was that I thought I had entered Shangri-La Sunday, down at The Emerald Cup, when I discovered the tent with all of the edible booths. I kept an iron-grip on Markie as I made my way through the crowd, so he wouldn’t knock anyone over, and it paid off when I hit the Bhang booth.

“Now sugar free and still perfection,” the one-point-five ounce (42.5 g), dark chocolate bar was inordinately delicious. In the upper right-hand corner on the front of the box, there is a serrated air bubble which states, in red, “DOUBLE STRENGTH.” 

The words meant next-to-nothing to me, but here are some pertinent pieces of information, in case any of you speak Cannabese: There are four segments in the chocolate bar, each containing 30 mg of THC, and there is some “consumption advice” on the back of the box:

“Until you know the effect of this product, eat only one-half of one segment, and then wait a minimum of one hour before consuming another segment.”

I never read that until about ten minutes ago, when I retrieved one of the boxes from the refrigerator. Interesting. 

My recent history with edibles has been a benign and gentle one, with my standard response to anyone inquiring as whether or not I achieved lift-off with any given sample being, “I expect I did. Not really sure. Let’s call it a pleasant glow, and leave it at that.”

Every time I set out to obtain edibles, I go with the best of intentions; I think I will need a shopping cart the size of a deuce-and-a-half, and I settle for a package the size of an Altoids box. I was determined to do better this time, but had still only asked for two of the chocolate bars, when the helpful clerk had inquired if he could be of assistance.

“How much is the donation, per chocolate bar?” I asked, examining the professionally wrapped carton I described above. 

“The suggested donation is five dollars each,” he offered helpfully.

I had been prepared to mortgage the house so I was pleasantly surprised. “Could I have four more?” I asked, suddenly remembering that if I were going to fill the bed of a truck, I better up the ante. The last of the big-time spenders, that’s me!

It wasn’t until I was on my way back to the booth, that I remembered I had been going to acquire some chocolate for a good friend who was planning a trip in the not-too-distant future. Oh, well, as Cheech and Chong were known to say, “You got something the other guy don’t, you chair, man.”

Upon my return to the booth, I proudly announced to HeadSodBuster and SmallBoy, much to their delight, that I had scored on a blockbuster deal.

“Did you remember to get some for your friend who is traveling?” SmallBoy asked.

“You better believe it,” I said, pulling out one of the bars.

“One for him…and five for Markie!” I announced triumphantly. For whatever reason, that brought the house down, though I failed to see the humor in it all.

I had arbitrarily eaten one of the segments the following morning, Monday, long about two AM, ninety minutes after I had gotten up and after two cups of coffee. I expect I enjoyed it, just as I expect I enjoyed the segment I ate on Tuesday and Wednesday, as well. I didn’t really think about it.

From the second I got up on Thursday morning, Markie was in control. When it came time for my daily ration of one segment, Markie suggested that we go for more. He did this by attempting to neatly cut a bar into the four segments it comes stock with, and botching the job.

The San Andreas Fault come to mind, but Markie didn’t note the similarity. He was too busy mixing his poisons: a sample of exquisitely delicious dark chocolate, followed by a sip of Cafe Domingo coffee, with half-and-half. Chocolate…coffee…which was which? Oh, this is some funch-pace, dankyotomy right here, or at least it was.

As near as I can make out, I consumed about 25 grams of that goodness. Now that I know the recommended dose is just a tad over five grams, I can better appreciate my experience the other day. What I can remember of it, anyway.

Zounds! The house emerged spit-shined, though at one point I think I had five projects going, simultaneously, none of them involving sitting down. A regular old whirling dervish. I was on my Chuck Dent surfboard from my teens; I was on water skis; I was whitewater rafting, all three simultaneously. 

Or I should say Markie was doing all this. I was, for one of the first times in my life, charting the course like a G. Even though Markie was munching the chocolate, hand over fist, I was the one taking notes, mentally. 

I had been aware all along that I never did anything more than dabble, when in reality, Markie really wanted to gobble. The net result was a successful raft excursion through rough waters, with two navigators at the helm: Mark and Markie.

Collaborating, for once.