My edible days stretch, hazily back to the seeds and stems years of the 1970s, where we’d cook down an entire ounce of weak-ass weed in a couple of cubes of butter. Strictly for medicinal purposes, of course: I had tight knees, and I needed to make them buckle. Tight hips too, and I needed to make them wobble. Actually, the point was to make our bodies as buttery as the rendered canna oil, and we had success.
But I fell away from brownie bliss, after a couple of episodes of “Whoa! Why are my pajama bottoms on my head at 4:30 in the afternoon?” The dosages were too inconsistent in measure and effect, and the high unpredictable in its longevity and impact.
Fast forward to today’s weed, a marvel of science and engineering. And also available in Gummy Bear form. This is not your daddy’s Maui Wowie. I was curious how edibles had progressed from my smoky, smelly kitchen days to a time of infused blueberries with catchy packaging.
A friend gave me a chocolate bar from a medical dispensary, this being a short while before recreational dispensaries became like Starbucks in California. The recommended dose was a quarter of the bar, but I didn’t pay attention to the THC levels. He’d given me a half-bar, I ate half of that, and was in pillowy mush for a few hours. Fine. But I took the other half to a house in Oahu with my girlfriend, and ate it maybe an hour before I went to bed. Poor planning, Sherlock. I woke in disoriented discomfort: what is WRONG? Oh, right, it’s the chocolate. But I’m not high, I’m hyperventilating.
Who knows why the effects were so dramatically different, but here I was, crazed, paranoid, groggy, and manic at the same time. I woke my girlfriend: “Alice, Alice, this is bad, I’m too high, I need to talk!” She was deep under the covers of Morpheus, and even the shrill desperation in my tone could only muster a “Oh, uhhh, OK, wait a minute,” before she fell back asleep. The next few hours were reminiscent of a bad acid trip: I scrutinized the entirety of my life in detail, and found it all—my family relationships, my love life, my finances, my hair—despicable and wrong. I was a loser, on a titanic scale. Luckily, having had the experience of talking myself down from a bad acid trip, I did just that: you can indeed tell yourself, “it will be OK,” ten thousand times. I finally slept, and in the morning, I was human.
But, I’m sticking with regular chocolate from now on.