Turns out they find my innocence very amusing. Even more amusing than the night I got tipsy on my front porch and sang show tunes. As a result of me telling everyone around about my new found interest, one kind gentleman brought me something he really likes - a laced chocolate bar.
The problem with edibles is dosing. As a baker, I know how hard it is to ensure an even distribution of chocolate chips in my cookies, or rosemary in my beer bread, or lemon zest in my pound cake... Experiments are required both in the making and the munching.
I'm sure I will eventually play with my muffin tins. But first I took a 1/4 of a square of someone else's chocolate bar...someone else's currently non-government sanctioned chocolate bar.
Nothing. I mean I got a hit of chocolate but that was all. I sat on the couch, reading, waiting for my shoulders to relax at least. Nada. Finally, after two hours, I gave up and went to bed.
Two nights later, I decided to try 1/2 a square. After all, the chocolate was tasty and one should never waste good chocolate. About 10 minutes later, I crawled up the stairs and fell on my bed. It was not a fun effort. I alternated between floating and sinking and imagining myself in a scene from Where the Wild Things Are.
Did it help my sciatica? I don't remember. Did it calm a panic attack? Well, I think I was having one during the moment when the Wild Rumpus began. So, no. Would I do it again? I can't; I threw the rest of it out.
Somewhere there's a raccoon taking a trip.
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