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  • Writer's picturecocodensmore

The Marijuana Truffle Story

April 21, 2024

I just realized yesterday was 420. That’s how old and square I am. I was talking to my friend Laurie when I remembered. We talked a little about our experiences and I decided to dust off this old piece. This all took place in 2015, so it’s been a while, now. My friend, my “partner in crime” has since passed. I had a magical summer with him and his wife and young children. The Marijuana Truffle Story is now a bittersweet memory.

It’s been about eight years ago now. When I was still working in Olympia. I had to give a presentation to a large group of professionals in downtown Seattle. I did well.


My colleague and I had driven up together. After the conference, we decided to go for dinner to avoid Seattle rush hour traffic.


We found a nice place on Queen Anne hill. Before we ordered, my partner in crime said, “I’ll be right back. I left my phone in the car.”


When he got back, there was the very distinct smell of pot.


“You smoked!”


“Yes, but I didn’t lie. I did leave my phone in the car.”


“I want some!!!”


“I didn’t bring enough. But it’s legal!!! We can go buy some!”


I searched my phone and found a dispensary, Hashtag on Stone Way. Man, did I think that was funny, even before we got the stuff.


We finished up and drove the mile or so to the dispensary. Inside was pristine, like a doctor’s office. All sparkly clean white with glass cabinets full of everything you could imagine. Sterile.


My friend looked at the smokeable stuff. I hate to smoke. I hate to smoke anything. So, I headed for the edibles.


He left with a joint. I left with a marijuana truffle.


In the car, I bit into the truffle. It was delicious. Not even a hint of pot taste.


“Don’t eat the whole thing, Coco. It might be too strong for you.”


“It’s so good!” I said, as I popped the other half into my mouth to savor.


We got on the road. For the first few minutes, I kept saying, “I can’t feel anything.” I’m so inexperienced. I do that every time.


We joked about if we got pulled over, what would we say?


“Officer, do I look like the kind of woman that would use pot?”


My friend mimicked the officer’s reply, “Ma’am, I just asked you for your license and registration.”

That kept us laughing all the way back to Olympia.


I dropped him at his house, walked round and picked up a bag of popcorn and a water bottle from the trunk, then slipped into the driver’s seat.


“Are you ok to drive?” he asked.


“Oh Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” I replied, laughing hard at the idea he even thought to question me.


I pulled out from his driveway to the exit of his subdivision and turned right. Missed the next left. I didn’t even see it. It was only a few hundred feet from the exit, but I missed it. I was immediately totally completely and hopelessly lost.


I felt like I’d driven into another world. Like a Jurassic Park world. It was summer. The trees that lined the road were leafy and green and the breeze sang through them. It was a glorious day. I noticed that. I certainly noticed that. I had never seen such colors. I saw the beauty, felt the beauty. But another part of me was rabid with fear.


I called my friend Hank. Platonic love of my life, Hank. Hank is a Google Earth junkie.


“Hank! I ate a marijuana truffle and I’m so high and I’m lost on ____ Road, at least I think that’s the name of the road! Look it up and tell me where I am! Tell me how to get home!”


“Coco. Do not drive. Do not drive. Pull over. Now.”


I couldn’t pull over. It was a windy country road. There was no shoulder to speak of. I couldn’t pull into someone’s long gravel drive, park the car, and wait to come down. Of course they’d call the police!


“I can’t I can’t! Please! Look it up on Google Earth and tell me where I am!”


“Coco, I have no idea where you are. I can’t find you on Google Earth. Do not drive. Do not drive. Pull over now.”


“I can’t!”


Hank stayed with me on the phone. He kept talking to me. I could hear the words, but each word appeared in a cartoon bubble above my head. I kept trying to put the bubbles together in the right sequence, so I could understand what the fuck Hank was saying. I just couldn’t. To not be able to comprehend what someone, my friend, speaking my language, was saying terrified me. As I got even more higher, I panicked even more.


Finally, the road came out near the edge of town, and I got a bearing.


“Thank you for staying on the phone with me Hank. It’s been like 45 minutes.”


“Coco, we’ve been talking for 9 minutes,” Hank replied.




I hung up and pulled into the downtown McDonald’s parking lot. I sat there for an hour. Then two hours. Then three hours. I tried to fix on a plan for handling my predicament. There was a hotel across the street. I had the money. I could just stay overnight.


During the fourth hour, the phone rang, it was my brother. He was asking me about the paperwork I needed to sign and file. My mother and I were buying his house.


I maintained for a few minutes, acting as sober as possible, as serious as possible. When he’d finished asking questions, I asked, “Are you working tomorrow?”




And then the floodgates of my bad high opened. And out poured all my fear.


“Oh my God I ate a marijuana truffle and I am so high and I keep waiting to come down and I just keep getting higher and higher and higher and I’m in the McDonald’s parking lot and it just won’t stop and I have no idea what to do.”


“Just hang tight. I’ll come and get you.”


My brother drove the hour to Olympia to pick me up, then the hour to my mom’s to take me home. When we walked in the door, my mom was confused to see my brother. He told her, “Coco ate some pot candy.” My mother laughed. She laughed!


I didn’t laugh though. It was a serious bad bad trip I was on. Serious bad. Awful. Horrifying. Like a fucking overdose. I went to bed, even higher than I’d been hours previous. My up just didn’t stop. Up and up and up. Awful. I hated it.


I’ll never eat another marijuana truffle. Bad trip. Very bad trip. Aint doing it again. Nope. Never.




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