I can tell you all this now, because the experiment failed like one of Sarah Palin’s children in an abstinence challenge. I failed to grow pot. Marijuana. Green stuff. Big failure. And now I have no dill, either. I’m going to be pickle-poor for some time.

I should be clear; it’s not that I have any desire to actually SMOKE pot. I pretty much gave up on that pursuit after high school. I’m perfectly content with my glass of wine, thanks. It’s just that I got that hydroponic garden for Valentines day, and one of the 7 pods was dill, which I would only need to make pickles, and I know from watching the movies about the rappers that hydroponics are for growing pot and nothing else. That’s right. I’ve seen the Method and Red Man shows. I’ve seen their Mr. Cheech and their Mr. Chong. I know about their smelly water pipes and their blacklight posters and their hiding dank in their film containers. I know all about it. But I was SKEPTICAL that you could actually GROW drugs. And, you see, skepticality is a very dangerous phenomena when it takes place in a Kristie.

While I knew that the moving pictures claimed “the pot” could be grown in a basement with drippy water tubes called “hydroponics,” surrounded by smoke and curtains made from stained Super Mario Bros sheets, I was pretty sure that it had nothing to do with ACTUAL gardening, and probably just grew wild in the dreadlocked hair of ne’er-do-wells. I figured the hydroponics was a myth. And I am a mythbuster.

And when all of the culinary students came over to make duck confit in my kitchen, they also provided me with a single seed. A magic bean of sorts. And I pulled the tiny little dill sprouts from their growing pod and replaced them with this one seed. And I was EXCITED. I was going to be a POT FARMER.

But it’s been, like, three weeks, and NOTHING HAPPENED. Which lends credence to the theory that it will only grow in the hair of ne’er-do-wells. So if you know any ne’er-do-wells with hair they don’t mind me farming in, just let me know. Until then, I’ve got a single, empty pod in my otherwise luscious hydroponic garden. So it’s back to the straight and narrow, where the most licentious thing I do on a given weekend is stealing two or three pieces of candy corn from the bulk bin at the grocery store to “sample.” And I’m bitter. Turns out, drugs ARE bad, mmmkay!

On the bright side, I do have some spectacular basil. Two kinds, actually. A regular Italian basil and a pretty, purple basil, both of which I wrapped together in a bunch to festoon a basic pasta arrabiata. And that was DELICIOUS, mmmkay?

8 thoughts on “”

  1. The Basil had a serious advantage over The Pot: it knew that it would be loved, that it had a purpose, that you would only serve it as part of a fantastic meal with the attention to detail only a mother would give. It knew it had a future.

    But The Pot knew you didn’t want or love it, deep down. It knew it was merely an experiment, a thing to be observed and then flushed! Oh yes, it knew!

    And The Dill? Well, that was probably the one who committed suicide due to unrealistic expectations of its parents.

    Or maybe it was poor soil. 😉

  2. I’m sorry to hear of your failed experiment. I think it works better to have it grow accidentally in the moldy carpet fibers of a converted garage housing a teenage boy…and again with the stained Super Mario sheets and blacklights.

    That basil looks dreamy though. I’m totally registering for one of those thingies.

  3. I will not even tell you about the number of people I know who have grown (or tried to grow) pot for no other reason than because they WANT TO GROW POT. Yup. Not for smoking, just to stick it to the man. I wanted to order up some opium poppies on line but Mike wouldn’t let me. Sheesh. I would totally have only used them for baking, I promise.

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