Edible vs. amuse bouche

I grew up in the 60’s.  Graduated from high school in 1970 so I’d be hard pressed to say I didn’t do my share of drug experiments.  But I’m not current on these things.  It took me awhile to figure out that “edibles” was not the equivalent of an amuse bouche.  I know, I know – I didn’t know what an amuse bouche was until I went to an incredibly pretentious restaurant on the Capitol Square a few years ago and was handed a tiny little porcelain spoon with an elegantly named but not so much tasting, soup. The waiter’s sneer was classic 50’s French though I’d guess he was from Stoughton.

Anyway, a few weeks ago I was having breakfast with my friend in yet another cool and trendy diner type place on Pearl Street Mall.  We were talking about Boulder and the culture of drugs.  I knew what an edible was by then – you just do if you spend any time in Boulder.  In my day it was brownies.  Grassy tasting, cud like, chocolate squares that stuck with you – and stuck with you – and stuck with you.  My friend handed me a little packet, hermetically sealed with a square shaped red jelly bit inside.  She told me it wouldn’t help me sleep so not to take eat it at night.  These days I’m always looking for ways to get a full night’s sleep.

I tucked it into my bag.  And forgot about it.  Until I was in the Green Ride to DIA a week later to return home. edibles I was tired and barely listening to the chatty driver. In the illogic of public transportation we spent 25 minutes picking up another passenger on the other side of town before stopping at a hub and getting on a different bus.  The two were happy chatting to each other which allowed me to daze out and not be rude.  The driver was talking about the tourists  who are reminded by signs in their rooms that  the drugs they buy in Boulder are not supposed to leave Boulder.  It appears that maids and other hotel employees are cleaning up (yeah, I know a pun) because of all the purchased goodies that have to be left behind when tourists go home.

Something penetrated my foggy brain.  “Oh, shit!”  I began to dig around in my bag.  The other two characters began to laugh.  I found the packet and held it up.  The driver stuck his hand back between the seats, saying, “I’ll help you out with that”.  I passed it forward.

I was imagining being stopped at the always long and mildly intimidating line that snakes through the security check point- the one with the German Shepherds tacking back and forth, sniffing at pant cuffs, tote bags and pockets, led by TSA guards in mirrored sunglasses herding us into single file lines.  Triggers something in me.  Some visceral, atavistic angst that makes me more law abiding than one would think.

 

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