Betty's (Little Basement) Garden (11 page)

“But they must see the…material…around the house.”

He scratched his head. “Yeah. They do. And I know what you mean. I have a lot of conflict about it too. Then I think, well, I drink beer in front of them and think nothing of it. So, I don't know. Until pot becomes completely legal for everyone, and not just medical patients, you walk a jagged line when you've got kids in the house.”

“Yes. I agree.”

Louie became pensive. “You know, growing isn't easy. Everybody who's not involved in this thinks you just throw a seed or a clone in the ground and come back five months later to cut down your crop. It takes a lot of time and talent. The time you put into it is not usually going to equal what you might get out of it financially, especially when you're a caregiver. You have to love it or else you shouldn't do it. I do it ‘cause I want to pick specific strains that are known for reducing pain, and also because I have total control over how I grow it without using toxic chemicals. And truthfully, I think it's kinda cool to grow your own medicine, you know? But in the end, yeah, it's a lot of hard work. Hell, I probably tack on another three hours a day just keeping my grow going.”

Betty nodded. “Well, thank you for this and for sharing your thoughts.” She turned.

“Have you ever worked with marijuana before?”

“What do you think?” she asked, with a half-smile.

“It's just my advice, take it or leave it, but make sure you vent the room really well and maybe even wear gloves when you're handling that much of it…especially the popcorn bud. The resins can absorb through your skin, and until you get really used to it, it can pack a punch if you're sensitive.”

“Thank you, Louie. But I don't think I'm
that
sensitive.”

He grinned a knowing grin. “Okay. Whatever you say.”

Betty drove home with the paper bag tucked between the two front seats and covered with her sweater. The smell was quite stout, so she opened her windows to let the aroma waft out of the car. The closer she got to home, the more her anxiety grew. She had no medical card and here she was, driving around with two ounces of cannabis in a bag. Once she arrived on her street, her anxiety lessened. That is until she saw a large motorhome blocking access to her home, as it attempted to back into Jerry's driveway across the street. Jerry was outside the motorhome, drinking a beer and helping the driver navigate his approach. He motioned to Betty to hang on a second.

Once the driver skillfully backed in and got out of his monolith on wheels, Betty quickly pulled into her driveway. In the rear view mirror, she saw Jerry sauntering over to the car. She got out, standing with her back against the open window of the driver's door. Betty could smell his heavy scent of beer soaked sweat.

“Hey, Betty! You're out late. That's my older brother, Jack,” he said, pointing across the street. “Hey, Jack!” he screamed, “Come over here a sec.”

Betty seized up. “I really have to get in and feed Ronald.”

Jack opened the passenger door on the RV and let out an enormous German Shepard on a lease. Together, they crossed the street. But as the dog moved closer, he began to bark loudly and become agitated.

“Shush, Arnold! Shush!” Jack demanded, jerking the dog's leash. But the dog kept barking and bolting closer to Betty's Taurus.

“Betty, meet Jack!” Jerry yelled above Arnold's persistent barking, now mixed with a few growls. “He's visiting me for a few days from Wyoming.”

Jack reached over to shake Betty's hand but Arnold's lunging prevented it. “Sorry about the dog,” Jack apologized, trying to pull him back from Betty's car.

Jerry swigged the last of his beer and turned to Betty. “Jack works for the DEA. Arnold's his sidekick and drug enforcement canine.
Aren't you Arnold
?!” The dog went wild, growling with specks of foam emitting from his bared teeth. “Jack named him after Arnold Schwarzenegger, the ‘Terminator.'” Jerry did his best, worst Schwarzenegger impression through his beer-goggled miasma. Arnold was bordering on ballistic. “Hey, Jack. What's the ‘move away' code word for Arnold?”

“Strudel!” Jack yelled.

Betty was still backed up against the open window, a forced smile plastered on her face. “Arnold! It's okay! Strudel!” she said with a nervous chuckle.

“
Strudel
!” Jack yelled again, yanking the dog's collar backward. Arnold slowly calmed down, as drool hung down his mouth like icicles on a Christmas tree. “Damn, I've never seen him so pumped up!”

The men shared a laugh and then thankfully started off across the street when Jerry turned around. “Hey, I scanned that letter to the editor and emailed it to about fifty people.” He stumbled over a pebble in the street. “Keep up the fight, Betty!”

She waited, heart beating wildly, until they were safely out of view before retrieving her brown bag and heading into her house.

Betty closed every window and pulled each curtain and shade. She carried the bag to the dining room table and sat down. After observing the bag for almost half an hour in silence, she opened it and removed the two plastic baggies. The contents of one looked like small, curled grass cuttings, and it was labeled “Cent. Blueberry shake.” The other was filled with marble-sized nuggets and labeled “popcorn bud/Cent. Blueberry.” Opening the popcorn bud bag, she took a quick sniff and sat back, closing it up quickly. She stared at the cannabis in stunned disbelief. The full effect of the last few hours hit her hard as she slumped over the dining room table, burying her head in her hands. “What have I done?” she mumbled to herself. After a few minutes of fretfulness, Betty turned her head toward the credenza. Frankie's framed photo was lying on top in the same place she'd left it. Quickly, she got up and sequestered the photo back into the center drawer. She packed the two plastic baggies back into the paper sack and carried them upstairs to the bedroom. Pacing back and forth, she realized she had no idea what to do with this rough plant matter. Peyton mentioned about his cannabutter, but that was Greek to Betty. Dashing to her computer, she brought up the search engine and tentatively typed “making medical cannabis edibles in chocolate.” She quickly got four hundred and forty-nine thousand links. Everyone from “Aunt Mary Jane” to “Doctor Dorothy” had either a blog or a YouTube video tutorial on “medical edibles.”

After reading six different blogs about processing cannabis six different ways, Betty's mind spun from confusion. The only thing perfectly clear was that the THC in cannabis had to bond to a fat, because it wasn't water-soluble. She'd always learned better from watching demonstrations than from reading. Thus, she clicked on the YouTube links. The one from “Doctor Dorothy” looked intriguing, until she realized Dorothy was as much a “Doctor” as Dr. Pepper. Dorothy also appeared stoned off her trotter during her lengthy cooking demonstration. There were long pauses where Dorothy stared into the pot she was stirring and seemed spellbound by the surface bubbles. At one point, Doc Dorothy advised, “You can take this oil
sublim
i
nally
” instead of “sublingually.” Aunt Mary Jane was no better. She was pushing seventy, spoke with a raspy gravel, and wore a turmeric, tie-dyed caftan with long sleeves that kept dancing awfully close to the gas burner on her stove. Aunt Mary Jane also employed a sidekick in the form of her forty-something “nephew” she kept referring to as either “Cousin Timmy” or “handsome.” When she'd lean over and say, “Hey, handsome, hand me the spatula,” and then wink naughtily, Betty got the feeling their relationship was complicated.

The videos continued for hours, the viewing broken only by Betty dashing to her kitchen to grab some dinner, feed Ronald and then return for another marathon session. She understood the basics pretty much: for every ounce of cannabis, add one pint of liquid butter, olive oil or coconut oil. THC, the main psychoactive molecule in cannabis, needs to metabolize with fat in order to be really effective. Pre-heating the plant material for twenty to thirty minutes in an oven at a strict 225 degrees Fahrenheit,
decarboxylates
– or the friendlier,
decarbs –
the THC into a more active form. After that, the resinous buds and sweet leaf are ground up to allow more surface exposure, and then simmered on low heat – preferably in a crock-pot – at no higher than 205 degrees Fahrenheit for up to six hours, stirring regularly. Adding four cups of water to the mixture, Betty learned, pulls the terpenes and chlorophyll away from the oil, producing a cleaner taste in the finished product, while letting the oil reduce more slowly so it can absorb more of the resins and the multitude of
cannabinoids
in the plant. Since water boils at a higher temperature than oil, the addition prevents the oil and plant matter from burning. Before finishing, some suggested lobbing in an ounce or more of grain alcohol to aid in the absorption of THC into the fat and letting that evaporate off for another hour or longer.

Once complete, the plant matter is strained through a muslin cloth and then tightly squeezed to get every last drop from the cannabis. This fat and water mix is poured into a bowl and placed in the freezer for at least two days and allowed to harden, so that one simply has to remove it from the bowl and easily break off the frozen water which separated from the fat as it hardened. From there, one could take the oil or butter concoction and add it in specific amounts to baked goods, chocolates and the like. Some skipped adding it to anything and simply ingested this potent green “butter” by itself or in gelatin capsules. Still others used the cannabis-infused oils topically to reduce arthritic pain and muscle soreness.

From what Betty discovered, there was a dizzying, seemingly never-ending array of methods to incorporate cannabis into one's body. Ironically, smoking it was the
least
effective mode to “medicate” since one was “burning up” and losing many of the healing
cannabinoids
that are responsible for the pain-relieving action. But while edibles were the best overall way to ingest cannabis, Aunt Mary Jane explained that the effect could take anywhere from one to three hours to feel. When it hit, though, as “Doctor Dorothy” counseled, “you'll be floatin' on the light fantastic” for up to eight hours.

Betty checked the time and was shocked to see it was approaching midnight. There was still a pulse of reluctance inside her as she stared at the paper bag, now secured on her bedspread, several feet from where Ronald was sleeping. She began to question herself again and her possibly rash response to the staggering illumination she'd experienced earlier that day. As she'd done occasionally in her life, she decided she needed a sign that all of this was all right. Of course, according to Peyton, the fact that she had a maintenance man named Buddy was enough. But she asked for one, nonetheless. And she sat there, waiting for her answer. Finally, as the clock hit 12:30, she heard the tap-tap of the large elm tree's branch outside her bedroom window as the wind softly blew through its leaves. She turned back to her computer and perused the long list of educational videos on cannabis, and then quite by accident, found a four-part documentary series on the history of the cannabis plant, its systematic corruption over time, and how cannabis could fit into the medical paradigm of our future. It even featured Doobie Douggie. Betty clicked on the documentary and started to watch it.

Within less than a minute, she had the sign she was looking for. The documentary was produced, directed, written and narrated by none other than Jeremy Lindholm, her erstwhile first love.

It had been a long time since Betty had stayed up all night cooking. But this would be the first night she stayed up cooking her first batch of cannabis.

Betty double-checked every kitchen window to make sure they were tightly shut, and closed all available shades. The back door was the only exposed area but the chances of someone coming in the back gate and seeing her, especially at this hour, were few and far between. With her carefully written notes on the kitchen table and a soft adagio playing on
Colorado Public Radio
, Betty went to work.

Since her goal was incorporating the cannabis into her chocolates without changing their texture, she figured the best way would be to infuse the cannabis into cocoa butter. But if that didn't work, to be on the safe side, she decided to also make a batch using coconut oil. Thus, she separated out half the “shake” and half the popcorn buds using a spoon, and factoring the proper proportions of oil to plant material, set about making two batches. All the information she'd read and viewed, strongly advised using a grinder that was exclusively dedicated for the cannabis. Betty had an extra grinder she hardly ever used and it was green, so she figured it would be the perfect choice. She spooned the “shake” and popcorn buds into the grinder; some fell out and she hastily collected it. Even though the popcorn buds were bone dry, the resins on the plant were still very much alive and slightly sticky against her fingers. After grinding the first few tablespoons, it was apparent there was a good reason for dedicating a grinder. All those resins adhered to the blade and sides, leaving a green, tacky carpet. Not wanting to use a knife against the metal, Betty wedged her thumbnail into the grinder and scratched out the caked remains. The odor of the Centennial Blueberry strain was like a summer fruit compote, with subtle earthy undertones. After removing as much of the remnants as possible from the grinder, Betty noticed that a line of resin had adhered under her thumbnail. She tried washing it off, but it was stubborn and absorbing into her skin. Instinctively, she stuck her thumb in her mouth, attempting to dislodge the packed resin. Instantly noting the bitterness of the resin, Betty quickly withdrew her thumb and attempted to wash the taste from her mouth. Satisfied it was out of her system, she went about measuring the correct amount of cocoa butter in one crock-pot and coconut oil in the other. While that melted, she carefully laid out the freshly ground popcorn bud and “shake” on two separate cookie pans and
decarbed
them in the oven for exactly half an hour.

After ten minutes, the kitchen began to smell like twenty people had just lit up joints. She opened the stove and was nearly overcome with a fine vapor that tickled her nostrils and created a growing buzz in her head. She recalled Louie told her to ventilate the area and wear gloves until she got used to it, but there was no way Betty was going to risk anyone smelling the aromatic brew, and gloves…well gloves were for moving hot dishes from the oven and wearing to church on Easter Sunday. Still, while the cannabis
decarbed
and the cocoa butter and oil melted, Betty began to feel a little disoriented. She sat down at the table and waited for it to pass, but then a fit of giggles ensued. It came out of nowhere and it grew. The problem was that nothing was funny and everything was funny. Within minutes, she leaned over the counter, convulsing with laughter. The timer went off, alerting her that the cannabis was ready to move from the oven into the oil. She regained control of herself, but still had to stifle an eruption of giggles here and there, as she stirred the herb into the two crock-pots. She added the required amount of water to each brew and checked the time. It was just after 1:00 am. Securing two candy thermometers into the crock-pots under each lid, Betty monitored the temperature as the brews bubbled and the cannabis danced across the surface of the oil. From all the information she'd learned in her short tutorials, she knew the process could take anywhere from a few hours to two days, depending upon which “canna expert” you listened to. Betty figured she'd cook the herb for six hours, so she grabbed a few old gourmet cuisine magazines to peruse in the pursuit of killing time.

Every fifteen minutes, she got up and stirred the green, oily infusions with a wooden spoon, checked the temperatures and gradually inhaled more of the vapors. At one point, Betty lifted the spoon from the coconut oil brew and allowed the emerald drops of cannabis to fall back, one by one, into the crock-pot. This seemingly rudimentary process became fascinating to her. She'd never really looked at a droplet of oil before, but now she was focused and consumed by the sight. Betty allowed the jade-colored drops to fall into her palm, but instead of returning them to the crock-pot, she rubbed the oil into her arm. Holding her palm close to her nose, she was both attracted and repulsed by the aroma. Without realizing it, she started to rub the residue across her face and noted how warm her skin felt. Another half hour passed and Betty dutifully stirred the two concoctions. Dipping a tablespoon into the cocoa butter infused cannabis, she held the spoon to the ceiling light to check the color. And then, instinctively and strictly from force of habit, she put the tablespoon into her mouth, removed the smooth substance with her lips, and swallowed. There was about a three second pause before Betty realized what she'd done. Frantically, she turned on the faucet and did everything she could to rinse out her mouth, even taking the sprayer and blasting it across her tongue. She turned off the faucet and waited, wondering what in the hell was going to happen to her. How could she be so stupid? It was a cook's knee-jerk reaction, she kept telling herself. But then, part of her wondered if that was true.

Ninety more minutes elapsed and her kitchen smelled like Woodstock at high noon in 1969. She'd read the same damn paragraph in her magazine on marinating shallots five times, and it didn't make any sense. The second she thought that, she couldn't remember what she just thought. And the more she tried to remember even the concept of what she'd been thinking, the more elusive the thought became. “Oh, dear,” she whispered, realizing now that proper ventilation and gloves were probably mentioned for a good reason. But it was too late for that. Each time Betty got up to stir the pots and check the temperature, the five-foot jaunt across the kitchen floor took more time and planning. By 4:00 am, the simple process of extricating herself from the chair required the kind of advance planning that goes into royal weddings and shuttle launches. Her body felt exceptionally relaxed but also as if lead weights encircled her feet. Everything around her slowed down. What seemed like half an hour, took place in five minutes.

At first, there was detachment and her vision briefly blurred. Then, it was if she saw herself as two distinct personalities. One of them was familiar and the other distant. As odd as it seemed, the familiar persona was the one she'd buried so long ago. The distant one was who she had become. This strange division scared the part of her that continued to move into the distance. But the free spirit that had been hidden seemed to relish the sensation. Fear didn't touch that sparkling part of her. Regret and pain didn't seem to affect it either. And as she allowed that part of her to become dominant, she settled into the moment and just
was
. The lights in the room seemed brighter. The classical music playing softly on the radio was louder and more precise. In fact, Betty could hear every instrument in the piece, as well as the thoughts the composer had when he was creating the composition. She had to check herself on that one.
The thoughts he had
, she mused. But in that pocket of time, sitting there at the kitchen table, she felt connected to the music and could feel the breath of the composer over her shoulder.

Another hour passed, and the indiscernible vapors in the room deepened. It felt as though her head was being pulled backward. Her mouth went dry and there were abrupt missing pieces of linear time. Then the strangest thing happened. Time, it seemed, caved in on itself and was bendable. Fluid, like mercury oozing against a silver spoon and flowing back into itself, gently coalescing and flowing freely. Every time Betty let fear enter the equation, she felt the free spirit move into her heart and calm her anxiety. And then, quite suddenly, there was only the
now
. The past was dead and the future wasn't manifest. But it was deeper than silence. It was all that ever was and all that ever would be. It was nothing and it was everything. In essence, it just
was
.

She laid her head on the kitchen table, using the magazines as an improvised pillow. A distant but distinct hum filled her ears, as the pressure became more intense around her forehead. She heard herself speak a short prayer and then she fell asleep. Lifting her head, she was sure she'd melted into a dream. She was still in the kitchen but it appeared electrified. Sparks of light twinkled above her in a syncopated rhythm. Betty pinched herself. Yes, it was a dream. Time felt suspended and her mind was empty. “How odd,” she said to herself without speaking. This was a dream, she kept telling herself, but then she began to doubt it.

Out of the ether, she heard a voice she hadn't heard in years. “You were always such a good girl, Betty. We never had a whisper of trouble from you. And you always did what you were told. Dear Lord, what happened?”

Betty turned around and saw her mother standing there. She was wringing her hands with worry and wearing an apron Betty remembered from her childhood.

“Where did I go wrong Betty?” her mother asked her, without moving her lips.

“Good God, Betty!” another voice bellowed.

Betty turned around. Standing in the corner of the kitchen was her father.

“I'm glad I'm not alive to see this!” he growled. “My heart couldn't take it, and I'd have another stroke that'd take me out!”

A fist bore down on the kitchen table. Betty jumped and spun around. She stared into Frank Sr.'s angry eyes. “What in the hell are you doing?” he barked, leaning over the kitchen table. “Have you lost your goddamned mind?!” Frank tilted closer to Betty. “Get rid of that shit
now
! Christ Almighty, Betty! What's wrong with you?”

Their voices tangled together, each one loudly demanding she immediately stop what she was doing. As the cacophony grew, Betty closed her eyes and pressed her hands to her ears to subdue the mounting fury directed toward her. Finally, she couldn't take it any longer and screamed, “
Stop it
!
You have no right anymore
!”

And then there was silence. She opened her eyes and saw Frankie standing in front of her. He was gaunt and pale but he held his hand out toward her. She heard his voice within her heart.

“It's okay, mom,” he whispered and smiled. “Remember the words on the tree?”

Betty's eyes filled with tears. She nodded. “But I can't do that.” She stared into his sad eyes. “God, Frankie. You're so real.”

“You won't remember any of this.”

“But I will,” Betty heard herself mutter in her head. She reached out to take her son's hand but the distant bleat of the cooking timer tore her away. She jerked awake and quickly sat upright in the kitchen chair. It was 7:00 am and she hadn't forgotten a thing. Through the dizzying blur of cannabis vapors that now saturated every inch of the kitchen, she could still feel those ghosts hovering close by. Staggering to the crock-pots, Betty checked the temperatures and turned off the heat. She managed to make it back to the kitchen table and sat down. Her head felt weighted to a wall of bricks. She stared across to the sink and fixated on the faucet. It was so comforting and completely enticing she couldn't help but stare even deeper, until there was just the faucet and Betty occupying that moment. In fact, she was so engrossed, she didn't hear the back gate open or the footsteps approaching the back door. And she didn't see the figure standing at the back door even after the distant taps on the pane of glass.

“Betty?”