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The Pot Brownies

Before I begin my story, to any law enforcement officers out there, I’m pretty sure the statute of limitations has long ago expired.

My friend threw a party. She always threw a party around Christmas…wonderful and delightful parties, and since it was going to be our last year there, the party was a combination “going away and Christmas party.

My friend was a fabulous cook and went all out for these parties. My daughters and their intendeds were there and my friends family was there…and our longtime friend, who we considered to be family was there.

Eatin’ time was upon us. I got what I thought was roast beef, and took a bite. “What the hell.” I thought. I told the ex not to eat it, because it was rotten. (What I didn’t know what that it was lamb.) I couldn’t believe my friend had tried to trick me into eating Bambi.

No worries though. She always put out a dessert spread, so I grabbed a new plate and headed toward the delicious goodies I was sure to find. Ah! There was a huge platter of brownies. She had never served brownies before and I’m not a big brownie fan, but why not?

I had three on my plate when my middle daughter came over and softly said, “you don’t want those brownies, mom.”

“Ooooh, yuk. Did she spit in them?” I asked. Middle daughter just said, “you don’t want them.”

“Ah, I thought. She must have made them with booze.” (I had not yet experienced the Jack Daniels fudge, but I wouldn’t put it past anyone to include booze in any kind of food.)

I put the brownies back on their platter and moved on to the other goodies beckoning me.

A few hours later, I started wondering where the ex and our friend were. I looked all over the house and couldn’t find them anywhere. I finally went outside. Oh my Lucy! First, I saw our friend, sitting in a lawn chair, looking like a cat who just ate the canary…then I see the ex, holding his head with one hand and grasping a pole for dear life with the other one.

I put my hands on my hips and said, “you boys are drunk!” Our friend is smiling and telling me to come sit on his lap. I tapped him on the head and said, “remember yourself!” The ex is moaning like a cow in labor.

I had driven of course. I was always the designated driver. Now, how I got those two huge guys into my little sports car, I don’t know, but I finally did. I turned my radio on, maybe thinking the music could soothe their savage souls. What? Oh, well.

Luckily, we only lived a few blocks up the street. I got the boys out of the car and into the house. I got the ex into the bedroom and got our friend onto the sofa.

The next morning, I got up bright and early and was in the kitchen making coffee. I heard somebody say, “good morning,” but all I could see were these two brown eyes peeping over the top of the sofa. He said, “I need a cup of coffee.” I told him he could have a cup as soon as I got it made.

He got up and was holding on to any and everything he could…the back of the sofa, the cabinets, the table…the chairs. I was thinking, “this boy’s going to need more than one cup of coffee.”

Finally he made it to the sink. When he got there, he said, “I need to go home.” I told him he could go home as soon as he had a cup of coffee.

He kept standing there, looking back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. Now…there were six of us and we all had cars, so at any given time one might think there was a hootenanny going on, or maybe a drug deal was going down, but…whatever. That day there were seven.

Finally, I asked him what he was looking for. He said, “I’m trying to figure out which one of these cars is mine.”

I didn’t find out what was in those brownies until a few years later. Our friend had come up to see us and he and the ex were on the patio drinking beer and talking. I sat down for a few minutes and our friend asked if I remembered that night. “Of course, I said. Ya’ll were two drunk monkeys.”

They both started laughing. Of course, I had no idea why. Finally they started talking to each other. It went like this.

The ex said, “yeah, I remember that night. On the way home, I thought we were on a magic carpet ride.” Our friend said, “and I thought Laurel was playing the flute.”

I was still confused. A few years after that (and an incident with one of my future sons-in-law), I was told exactly what they were.

10 thoughts on “The Pot Brownies

  1. Terrific story, as usual. (When are your stories not terrific? Never.)

    Back in my childhood, my mother used to make lasagna with venison. I called it “Bambi Pie”. I was confused about where the deer meat actually came from, because even though my stepfather proclaimed himself a “hunter”, he rarely came back from his safaris with actual product. He mostly went hunting just so he could drink vodka at 6am whilst ensconced in a deer blind in the woodlands of Oklahoma.

    I must confess to liking lamb, especially when it comes in the form of a gyro. Interestingly enough, the best gyro I ever had was in Paris. Some folks go there for the art museums. I apparently went there for the meat. And that probably explains a lot more about me than you need to know… šŸ˜‰

    Liked by 1 person

    • LOL. I think I have actually eaten a “Daffy.”
      I had a pet duck, who I raised from a bitty little thing. He’d follow me halfway to school and then meet me coming back home. One day…little ducky disappeared. I wondered why and how we were able to have meat that night…(our meat was always fat back.)
      I never did know what happened to my little duck. Now, I’m pretty sure where he went. šŸ˜Ŗ
      I never seemed to have much luck with my little critters.
      My drunk uncle killed my little chicken…my little sister killed the robin I had raised from a hairless little blob, and my oldest sister was playing with my hamster…he bit her finger and she threw him across the room and killed him. WTH?

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Don’t ever go to a middle eastern restaurant, Laurel. There’s a lot of lamb! šŸ™‚ Ugh, pot brownies. Back in college I had some and the effect was mild — a good memory actually. But pot has only gotten stronger since then, and this is something I didn’t know about because I had quit by the time I was 25. After my first marriage, a woman I briefly dated gave me a laced brownie. I thought back to my college experience and thought it might be fun. It wasn’t — I got horrible ill! I fared better than your ex and his buddy, but I learned my lesson. No more! – Marty

    Liked by 1 person

    • Ha. I guess I’ve been too sheltered. I’ve never smoked it…and it’s illegal here.
      I’ve always been one of those odd-balls…didn’t smoke pot…never tried drugs…never had a drink. I did however, finally have a drink with my soon to be ex. I think it was okay…don’t remember much except he kept feeding me mashed potatoes. šŸ„“

      Liked by 1 person

        • Oh! I thought you were talking about corned beef hash. I wondered how that played into the brownies. I’m not very up on the pot thing. I’ve never smoked it…or eaten it. And it’s illegal where I live.
          The lamb…yuk. When I was EMS, once a year, all of the hospitals would put out a spread for all the medics. They knew that most of the time, we didn’t have time to eat.
          My partner and I ran into the room to grab something real quick. Yep…figures. The meat was lamb! What’s up with these people eating Bambi? I don’t eat Bambi. I don’t eat Thumper… and I don’t eat chicken! (Even though I used to cook a mean fried chicken…NO MORE! (Long story on that one.) šŸ˜¬

          Liked by 1 person

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