Cuisine: Functional fungi weds heirloom cacao

by John Lehndorff

Functional fungi weds heirloom cacao in ceremony at Boulder chocolate company

Fdon’t eat them simultaneously. MUSHROOM CHOCOLATE BARS organic mushrooms together. cacao together in a delicious, functional slowly ground in a stainless steel vessel. JOHN LEHNDORFF says. delivering functional mushrooms because he says. of chocolate.

Cooking Hack: Vodka of Tea Sweeteners

Idon’t need the sugar overdose Southern sweet teas deliver. I’d rather have dessert. However, many strong iced teas taste better a little sweeter. and heat just until the sugar dissolves. Bar nerds suggest weighing equal amounts of water and sugar to achieve the ideal

Taste of the Week: Dipping in Tartare

Ffried clams consumed on the sea shore. JOHN LEHNDORFF fryer. Hot from the oil, these clams are slight

Culinary Calendar: Pagan Mead Ritual

TEagle, eaglemushroomfest.com.

The pool rippled between us. The sound of water lapping its sides was the only noise as I stared at the stranger and pondered his question. “Do you want to smoke a bowl?” Under any normal circumstances, the answer wouldn’t have taken a second thought. I wanted to. However, circumstances were anything but normal: it was 5:03 a.m., I hadn’t slept and was still drunk from

a long night out, my plane was leaving in less than two hours, and I was in Bali, Indonesia, a part of the world where cannabis isn’t just frowned upon—it’s persecuted to the most extreme extent of the law. I was on the tail end of a week-long trip, riding motorbikes, hiking volcanoes, meeting friends, drinking Bintang, and nursing hangovers on busy beaches—all the tourist stuff. I’d come from Australia, where I’d been thoroughly warned about using cannabis in Indonesia. “Don’t mess with it while you’re there,” I’d been cautioned again and again. Simple possession in Indonesia set you up; they’d try to sell you weed, tell you to step into an alley-way, exchange money for a bag of Thai basil and BAM! They had you. Locked up in an Indonesian prison, shoulder to shoulder with all manner of criminals. I didn’t want any part of it. I’d denied every offer all week long. I’d made it this far. But here I was, on the edge of this pool staring at a man I’d just met who’d started chatting from across the water as we both ate drunken early morning pizzas. He’d just gotten a tattoo. I’d just gotten a tattoo. He was a local. I was a foreigner. Why not share our meal together? And, hell, while we’re at it, “Do you want to smoke a bowl?” I considered the consequences. I thought about life locked up abroad, about my mother and my father and my girlfriend back home. I thought about freedom and all the life I’d miss out on if I were here, growing old in an Asian prison. But then again, this guy wasn’t trying to sell me weed. Right? He just wanted to smoke it with me. We’d both be party to this meager crime. “Sure,” I replied after a moment. “I hour and a half.” No problem, he said. In fact, he’d drive me to the airport himself. It seemed like a good deal: Free picked my pizza up and walked over, sitting beside him. “Will.” We ate pizza. We talked. He packed a couple of bowls full of Indonesian ditch weed and eventually, when we were stoned, our plates were empty and the second bowl torched, he pulled a joint out of the baggie. “What do you say we smoke this while I drop my friends off?” he gestured towards his room. “Then I’ll take you to the airport.” Again, I agreed. We rallied his friends, piled into his

For whom the bowl tolls A close brush with a drug cop on the far side of the Earth almost ends in a third-world prison

by Will Brendza WILL BRENDZA

tiny car, dropped them off several blocks away and then smoke curling up around his face. He inhaled. He passed it to me. “What do you think I do here, Will?” The question caught me off guard. “Uhh,” I searched for an answer as I hit the joint. “Do you sell weed?” He laughed, taking the joint from me. “No,” he looked amused. “Look there,” he pointed with his chin at a model Ducati motorcycle on the dashboard. “You sell motorcycles?” Again he laughed. He hit the joint, his face looking skeletal as he inhaled. “Behind the Ducati.” I leaned over, curious, and suddenly my blood ran cold. There, perfectly hidden out of sight was an Indonesian police badge gleaming in the sun. A moist hand cinched around my wrist. I looked up at leaned toward me, smoke pouring from his nostrils and I shrank away in terror. “I’m like the DEA for my country,” he sneered. “And you’re my bitch, Will.” ping and somehow rolled out of the vehicle. I got to my could see, jumping in. “Where to?” stopping the taxi with his badge. Then he was opening the door, grabbing me. I screamed. I rolled out the other down the beach, through alleyways, back to my hotel for my pack, and immediately to the airport. so relieved to feel a plane’s tires leave the ground. It was a close call—a brush with the law that could have had an ugly ending. And one that taught me an im around cannabis, we’ve made an awful lot of progress. Not so long ago, cannabis laws here weren’t so different from Indonesia’s. And that is certainly something to celebrate. Email: wbrendza@boulderweekly.com