Brownies In A Pot

Our friend Gisella called to ask if we had a hair trimmer.  She knew I cut Bill’s hair and figured we would – and she was right.  Her son, Peter, was visiting from Oklahoma for a few days and needed a shear-down but didn’t want to pay a barber.  I told her I’d walk it across the street to her house so I could meet her son.

Later in the day, Peter walked back over with our trimmer and rang the doorbell.  Bill and I were looking over a Chinese take-out menu for dinner, and I got elected to answer the door.

After he handed over the large baggy that held the trimmer, charger and different sized heads, we stood outside the front door since Peter didn’t seem to be in any big hurry to get back to his Mom’s house.  He started rambling and rubbing his newly shaved head.

“It’s crazy there,” he said.  “Those two are driving me nuts.  You know what they’re like, right?  I’ve been drinking all afternoon.  Can you tell?  By the way,” he said, leaning in to whisper, “do you smoke?”

“No, sorry,” I said, leaning backward a little to avoid the amazingly strong Jack Daniel’s vapors wafting out of his pores.  “There’s a drug store about a mile from here,” I added.

“Not that kind of smoke,” he slurred.  “You know…”

“Oh, sorry, no,” I replied.  “I left all my contacts back in Atlanta years ago.”  I said good bye and stepped back inside as Gisella and Wes pulled up in front of the house to pick up Peter.  They were all going downtown to see Kris Kristopherson in concert.

Through the open driver’s side window, Gisella maintained a constant barrage from the time Peter started slinking down the drive until they pulled away from the curb.  “Did you come out through the garage?  Did you lock the front door?  Do you have a house key?  Do I need to go back and check the front door?  Is that what you’re wearing?”

Peter’s in his mid-40’s now; I can’t imagine what it was like when he was a teenager.

I watched them drive away, closed and locked the door and walked to our bathroom to returned the trimmer bag to its place under the sink, then back to the kitchen to peruse Chinese takeout with Bill.  But, before I could even open the tri-fold menu, Mom called out “Patty, who was that at the front door?”

“That was Gisella’s son.  He’s visiting from Oklahoma,” I yelled.

“What was in that baggy that he gave you?” she shouted.

I paused for a nanosecond, wavering between the shrimp and veggies and Sesame chicken, and then, for some unknown reason, yelled back, “Pot!”

“Pot?  Pot?” she said.  “What kind of pot comes in a bag?”

“The kind you smoke,” Bill chimed in as he started to chuckle.

“Well that’s just stupid,” she yelled back at us.  “Who ever heard of smoking anything in a pot?  You smoke on a grill, don’t you?”

“And they make brownies with Pot too,” I added.

“In a pot?  You make brownies in a pot?” she shouted.  “Well that’s just stupid too.”

“I guess it’s a German thing, Mom,” I said, settling on the shrimp and vegetables combo dinner.  “He probably learned it from Gisella.”

“Well maybe.  I’ll just have to ask her about it the next time she comes over,” she said.

Bill and I both want to be in the room for that conversation!

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