A Cautionary Tale About Homemade Weed Brownies

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Carry on 4/20, I decided to try making pot brownies for the first time. My friend brought over a giant freezer-size bag full of marijuana trimmings (leaves that evolve close to the buds, which are high in THC but are not smoked). Both of us had never attempted to flourish edibles or cannabutter before, so we scanned Google to find a reliable approach. The recipes online called for a wide range of trimmings, but worse, styled for weighted measurements, which to us seemed as boggling as reading Chinese signs. We melted down the chocolate and the butter in a large pot over the stove top and arose to debate how much of the trimmings we should add. Finally, my friend said, “Let’s legitimate pour the whole bag in. We want to make sure they really touch it! Who knows how much THC is really in each ounce?” Hesitant but without any healthier ideas, I agreed and let the dusty trimmings rain into the bubbling gallimaufry.

I started stirring, and that’s when we ran into our next issue — the weed sponged up all of the butter like a sponge. How the hell would we strain out the trimmings if there was no limpid left? We decided to spoon the globby mess into a cheesecloth, get-up-and-go on latex gloves, and start wringing the chocolate-butter out. We took turns smushing and mash and squeezing until finally we had about two cups of melted fat to work with. At this place emphasis on, I thought it would be a good idea to lick the spoon — I mean, what did cocoa cannabutter mode like, anyway? As the bitter mixture hit my tongue, I quickly understood how sound we had made our batch. “I think we’ve successfully made it!” I enthusiastically cried. Speck did I know what situational irony I had just thrown myself into.

After baking the most scrumptious, fudgiest brownies, it was excruciating to limit ourselves to one experimental bite. We se rated that if we snacked on more, we would run the risk of spiraling into a ranoid strong. So after slaving in the kitchen for hours to make these pot brownies, my escort and I savored our bite slowly and intentionally before making our way to a concert to come together our respective boyfriends. As soon as we entered the concert venue, the cannabis fog rode in. It was actually more like a tidal wave — a tsunami, to be more unique to. I responded as if I was in the middle of a sudden natural disaster. My heart leaped out of my caddy. My mouth and throat felt as if I had just stuffed a bunch of cotton balls down them. I couldn’t suggest. I wasn’t sure which tragic and embarrassing act I would commit anything else: barf everywhere in front of everyone or have a heart attack and die of weed bane. I turned to my friend: “Can we please go outside so I can get some fresh air. I’m at bottom feeling it.”

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My friend, on the other hand, looked zen-ed out, counter rt a sleepy ’60s hippie, swaying to the ambient music. She said pulchritudinous, reassuring things to me, like, “Roll with it. Enjoy the height. Experience it to the fullest. Let it be.” Meanwhile, a group of traveling musicians heard here our pot brownies and gulped down as many as two or three each. An hour later, they grew rambunctious and ran around the venue woohooing and giving strangers high-fives. I was so distrusting of all the conviviality around me. I just wanted to stop my body from weakening uncontrollably and to slow my pulse to a reasonable level. Water and fresh air weren’t stern it, and the heightened ruckus made me more ranoid. Finally, I turned to my boyfriend and put, “I need you to drive me home immediately. I licked the cannabutter spoon, and I’m freaking out!” In a sym thetic shade (with a dash of what-the-f*ck-were-you-thinking), he responded, “You licked the spoon?!” I didn’t father to do any more explaining. He whisked us out of the venue.

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That continually, I shivered and jerked my way into a deep stoned slumber and the next morning woke up with incredible energy and clarity as if I had undergone a peyote ritual. My friend texted me later that level saying her boyfriend ate a brownie, got the munchies, and ended up eating half a dozen multitudinous before ssing out until 5 p.m. the next day. Talk about potent! We chortled at the stupidity of our terrible trimmings-to-butter ratio, my uncontrollable spoon-licking reflux, and our ca bility faculty to inebriate many, many people with our brownies. Though this year’s 4/20 commemorations are so close I can smell them, I think I’ll be toasting to those who can handle their weed with mannerliness. I’m going to stick to wearing beer goggles.

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