Baked Goods

This is my 800th post! I started this blog in September 2005 and have never lapsed, which I'm rather proud about. In blog years, that's like 50. I started the blog to document my nascent journey as a parent, and today's post will show, Dear Readers, that after six years I'm just as irresponsible and ridiculous as I was back then.

So, we're going to see a matinee of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat yesterday afternoon, right? My friend John, whom I met on Choo, Choo, is playing one of the brothers. I mean, what could be more wholesome? A family outing to a matinee musical, and all about the Bible, yet. We're adorable! The show (which you should totally see--it runs two more weekends and I was dancing in the aisles!) is playing at Moxie, and we don't know that area well, but we want to stop for lunch first. I've just spent two hours at the gym (more wholesomeness!) and have worked up a hearty appetite.

David remembers that someone (it's now a matter of some interest that we don't know who) recommended a nearby sandwich place when I was in Choo, Choo at the same theater--he brought me a yummy sub one night during the show. He can't remember the name, but knows roughly where it is, so we just drive around 'til we find it. Doesn't look like much from the outside, but the interior is cozy and welcoming, with padded booths, medium-volume '70s rock and a smiling guy who hails us hello.

We order some subs and a soup-in-a-bread-bowl for Jarrah, after she turns down a curiously delicious-sounding baked PB&J. They are out of bread bowls, and the guy is so (unnecessarily) apologetic that he gives us a free giant cookie. A big bowl by the register is filled with brownies, and a rack of the tastiest chip flavors, too--hello, Cheddar Sour Cream Ruffles! It's weird...it's like they stocked everything I might ever have a...craving for. Jarrah is excited about the Kool-Aid on tap, and while that smacks slightly of Jonestown, I allow it. They brew me a fresh pot of iced tea and we get comfy. There are two or three college-age duos at other tables.

While we're waiting, I admire the mural covering one whole wall. It has a soothing beach theme, with palm trees and surfers. Ah, California. All that sun and sand and...um...smoke? Two of the surfers appear to be passing a rolled-up cigarette between them. Not very healthful. And those two sea lions...breathing smoke on each other? That's odd. And...wait a minute...why are the palm trees shaped like pointy leaves?!?

My eyes track around the room as if on a dolly, seeing it afresh. There is a giant, glittery "420" above the drink station. The sandwiches are named "Silver Haze" and "AZ Homegrown." A logo on the menu reads "Where nothing is fried except for the customers!" I flash back to feeling up a strange item next to the cash register called a "Goo Ball"--"rice crispies, peanut butter, honey and cocoa." That sounds a bit...purpose-driven.

Hey. Why are "herb" and "toasted" in quotation marks everywhere? Why are the drinks called "Cotton-Mouth Cures?" Why do many of the featured items boast "Hemp--it's legal!" And why did it take me so long to notice ALL of this??? Suddenly I notice some official-looking stickers on the window, alongside the "Visa Accepted." I sprint over to examine them, heart pounding, could this place be...? No. Not even. It's not. I mean, I've heard about those places, but...do they serve sandwiches? And have a kids' menu???

I start giggling. Slightly hysterically. Which probably makes me fit right in. I sneak peeks at my sweet-faced child, leaning on her elbow and studying (uh-oh) her Chicken and Rice soup, which she says is "a little spicy." WHAT? Good lord, what have we done? David doesn't see what's so funny. He likes his sandwich a lot. He asks if I like mine. Sure, but... But what?

All the literature espouses "free speech" and "counterculture." As if those are just euphemisms for "totally baked and loving it."

"David!" I stage whisper. "What are we doing?" "We're eating lunch," he says calmly. "But...we're eating lunch...in a MARIJUANA RESTAURANT!" I hiss. Jarrah doesn't even look up. What does that even mean? "We've brought our child to a marijuana restaurant!" I try again. David is unimpressed. The chocolate-chip cookie our server has gifted us tastes homemade. Oh my stars. What must he have thought when he saw me longingly fondle the brownies as I ordered "The Chronic?" Well, I guess I know what he thought. It's not that big of a mystery.

We eat our lunch. I giggle some more. I giggle a LOT. Excessively, even. They probably get a lot of that. When we're ready to go (having not heard The Grateful Dead even once) the cashier and the sandwich maker wave us merrily on our way.

David asks if I'd go back. I say I think so, but I wonder if I'm just trying not to sound uncool. And am I uncool? Is it weird that I was giggling? Or weird that we stayed? At least Jarrah didn't seem the least bit curious, about any of it, except how much cookie she was going to get.

Now as long as she doesn't start calling sandwiches "blunts," I think we're in the clear.