***ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN OUR FIRST PRINT EDITION. MSG VISCERALUTERUS@GMAIL.COM SUBJECT TITLE ZINE ORDER IF YOU WANNA COPY.***
She straddles the coffee table and takes a hit.
Tendrils of smoke caress her face as they escape her mouth and dissolve into the ether. A dreamy haze floods her eyes; a smile creeps across her face.
We are now both sufficiently high enough to go munch out at Mill Creek Café. We gather the necessities and head for the door, making it halfway up the stairs when my stupor is penetrated by one simple question from Our Editor: "Did you remember your pen and notepad?"
Upon re-entering the premises, I suggest we take another hit. It seems like the right thing to do- we did come all the way down a half a flight of stairs, after all!
We do another rip and head out. On our way back up the stairs, she beams: "Forgot your notepad again, didn’t you."
Fuck sake! That last bong hit was clearly unnecessary.
I trudge back downstairs, AGAIN, returning, FINALLY, with the elusive notepad in hand. We make it out the door and are greeted by a sweet fucker of a day. It’s hot and bright and full of possibility. We walk, talk, discuss, debate. (I can’t quite remember what about; I’ve taken too damn long getting around to writing this review. Plus, we were pretty stoned.)
Around a corner, down the street, through a tree-lined path, making it to Millcreek in no time flat. We’re greeted warmly and told to sit at the table of our choosing. I pick one at the back, out of any direct sunlight, thus ensuring I don’t become a sweaty mess. Music pours out of the overhead speakers at near perfect volume: chill yet upbeat. I find proper musical volume essential to an enjoyable dining experience, especially if you’re completely blasted. If it’s too loud you’re always trying to shout over it, and if it’s too quiet, it becomes an irritating fucking itch at the back of your brain.
A server comes by and asks if we "wanna order some stuff". This unusually phrased and completely unpretentious question sits well with me. It lends to a more natural relationship than the typical server/customer dynamic. I respond that we’re not ready yet- a half-truth, as Our Editor knew what she wanted before we arrived. She gets the same thing every time: latkes, otherwise known as potato pancakes.
I scan the menu. Whether vegetarian, vegan or carnivore, this place has something for everyone.
"I think I want the beef dip," I remark, "but the quesadilla also sounds delicious."
Deciding on a meal is a monumental undertaking when I’m this high. Too many choices! I have the same issue at the grocery store. (Am I the only one with this First World Problem?)
"Go with your first instinct." Our Editor quips.
Beef dip it is. We close our menus, our server promptly returns, and we relay our choices.
"I’m so ready to eat the fuck outta some calories." Our Editor declares, causing her mohawk to weeble-wobble side to side. And what a fabulous mohawk it is. It stands of its own accord, sans product. She’s convinced her weed consumption is the cause for this phenomenon. On this particular day it’s all helter skelter in every direction, each hair hellbent on asserting its own independence. Badass and adorable all at once.
I tell her this. Her face reddens slightly and she makes some deflecty comment I can’t quite recall.
It’s about this time our food arrives and we descend upon it like starving, rabid vultures.
Nothing ever tastes as good as when you’re stoned. A bold statement, but a true one.
I’ll apologise in advance to the anti-meat crowd. You probably won’t like hearing about the tender, succulent, juicy roast beef sliced wafer thin and piled halfway to the sky, but it’d be pretty hard reviewing my sandwich without mentioning it. On top of the immaculate masterpiece of meat were so many sauteed onions that my meal defied the laws of gravity. Thank the heavens for extra-long toothpicks.
It’s time to munch out. I’m hungry as hell and this herb has my stomach desperate. I tear into my first bite without the dip, as is my custom. I prefer to vary tastes and textures when high. This variety stimulates my soul, my brain, and my belly. Eating in this state can be a truly sensual experience. The sad irony is weed usually makes you so ravenous you don’t take the time to appreciate it.
The beef and the onions are cooked to perfection. Next up is the dip- I’ll bet the suspense is killing you. The verdict...? Delicious, though slightly salty for my taste, but I’m a bit of a Salt Nazi- a pickiness exacerbated from living in a Salt Mad Nation.
Our server returns to ask how we’re liking everything. I tell her I’m quite impressed while Our Editor responds, "These latkes taste like God’s tongue"- whatever the fuck that means. She must be higher than I thought.
She asks if crack is the secret ingredient. Our server is clearly amused, and plays along: "The secret ingredients are love... and some of our spit, which is also technically love."
After our server jaunts away, I bear witness to a truly glorious sight: Our sweet Editor knuckle-deep in apple sauce, spooning it into her waiting craw with her fingers like a vestige of prehistoric humanity. Her plate’s already empty. I’ve also finished, and we ask for the bill. (NOT the cheque- a cheque is what you pay a bill with, a bill is an amount owing. I can’t fucking stand it when people say, "Cheque, please!")
As we ready to pay the BILL, I notice Our Editor struggling mightily with the zipping up of her coat. Now, you wouldn’t consider this a particularly difficult task, unless of course you’re so stoned you’re trying to zip your hooded sweatshirt to your jacket.
We pay at the counter and leave to face the rest of our day... and to do some more bong hits, of course.