Episode 61: High on the Fourth of July

The family is sitting around Mom’s dining room table in Cabin John one June, finishing up dessert. We’re talking about the cabin Tyler and his wife have bought at Bryce Mountain of Virginia, now Bryce Resort. We’re all invited for the fourth of July weekend and we’re dividing up the cooking chores for the weekend.

Finally, all eyes turn to me. The only job left is to make dessert. I’m already thinking of the classic ice box cake, the easiest dessert in the world. But someone brings up brownies. And I’m just as happy to do those. Until someone says,” So are you going to make magic brownies?”

Whaaa? I’ve never discussed such things with family. Soon, they all are egging me on to do it, including my mother, Shirley.

I get it. She has taught creative writing at a university for years and read many a student’s tale about pot brownies. No doubt she’s interested in experiencing it for herself. John loves desserts and doesn’t care what’s in them.

After much cajoling, I agree.

I call a friend to ask for the ‘recipe’ and she gladly shares it. The night before I drive the three hours to Bryce, I make up a batch. I taste a small piece and find it, well, influential. It never dawns on me that a four-year-old child will be with us, so I don’t make any unadulterated brownies.

I’m halfway to Bryce when I realize I’m still a little stoned from that sample I ate the night before. I crush a small wave of doubt.

I’m driving the Green Bomber, the Plymouth Satellite my parents had passed on me. It’s like driving a boat on calm seas, smooth and steady. That is until I hit the unexpected, unpaved part of the road going up the mountain. The sound of the car hitting the dirt – not even gravel – is wrenching but the Bomber keeps going until I pull into the grass and look at the map. Yup, I’m in the right place. Nope, the map doesn’t indicate a dirt road, but neither did Tyler.

Great.

We keep chugging up the steeper and steeper incline. By now the Bomber is complaining a little bit, wheezing and spitting some, but eventually we get to a spot that levels out and we stop. I turn off the engine and hear it rattling loudly, venting its outrage. I imagine it saying, “I’m not a JEEP, goddamn it!”

After a few minutes, the rattling stops, and the Bomber heaves a petulant shudder.

“Don’t worry, Old Paint, we’re almost there,” I said, crossing my fingers behind my back.

As it happens, I’m right.

We’re only five minutes to the driveway of the cabin. We’re the last ones there. The Bomber settles into its parking spot with one last rattle and a silent threat not to move until we leave for home.

I open the front door to a chorus of, “Did you bring the brownies?”

Jesus! Where’s the kid? Napping, I hope.

The excitement is palpable. My parents had never had pot and my siblings and their spouses hadn’t had any in years. Me, on the other hand, well, let’s just say I’m familiar with its use.

In the end, I had to talk them all down from their anticipatory high and firmly state no brownies were being distributed until after dinner. And I made special caution to Shirley and John: no extra dry vodka martinis on the rocks with a twist if they intend to eat the brownies.

Advice fallen on deaf ears.

Next: How to start a forest fire when you're high on marijuana.