GUILT! GUILT! GUILT!
About 5 years ago, when I was still single and carefree, I had the opportunity to travel to Amsterdam with a very good girlfriend of mine for a long weekend. This friend (who I'll call "Mathilde" -- you know, to protect the guilty) and I were living in London at the time, working in very stressful jobs, and needed to get away.
The night before we left, we called each other to finalize our plans to meet at Heathrow airport. Both of us sounded like we had the weight of the world on our shoulders. "Girl, I am exhausted," said Mathilde. "And so stressed. I have half a mind to try some marijuana while we're there."
I started, and then inhaled excitedly. You see, I am one of those sad individuals who managed to make it through her youth having never tried any illegal substance. Ever. And since pot is legal in Amsterdam (seriously! it is!), I had been trying to figure out how to broach the subject with my friend. God bless her, she'd just opened the door.
"Um, seriously?" I said, tentatively. "Because, um, I've never done it before, and um, I was thinking that, um, maybe, perhaps, I'd give it a try."
"Seriously," she answered, gravely. "I've never done it before, either, but this job? Is driving me to do it. We'll try it when we're there."
When we met at the airport, both of us laughed nervously at each other. "I can't believe we're going to do this," she said. "Me neither," I giggled. You would've sworn that we were 12.
After an extensive conversation on the plane, we decided that we would try it the following night. We also decided that we would see if we could get it in edible form, rather than cigarette form, since neither of us had ever smoked a cigarette, either (I KNOW!), and we were afraid of getting sick.
The next night, we treated ourselves to a fine dinner at one of Amsterdam's most well-known restaurants. After dinner, we paid the bill, and looked at each other knowingly. It was time.
We walked, dressed in our elegant skirts, and sensible shoes, and modest clutch purses, to one of the bigger "coffeeshops" in Amsterdam, known as Grasshopper. We opened the door, and a cloud of smoke and Bob Marley hit us immediately.
Nervously, we wandered over to the counter, where a very sensible-looking young girl smiled at us. "May I help you?"
We started giggling. "Umm... yes. We'd like, ummm..." We could barely get the words out.
"Would you like something to smoke?" she asked, helpfully. She indicated at the large glass case in front of her, which looked like something out of a botany lab. "We have many..."
"Oh, uh, no," I interrupted. "We'd rather have something to, you know, eat." I may have winked at her. I was just loser enough to wink at her.
"Oh," she said, "Well, unfortunately, we don't sell any cakes here. But about 4 streets away, there's a bakery, and that's all they sell. You might want to try there."
"Thank you," said Mathilde, and we fled the shop.
Not willing to give up yet, we made our way to the bakery (which, for the life of me, I cannot remember its name). We walked in -- and it looked just like your normal, everyday, neighbourhood bakery, save for the COMPLETELY STONED attendants behind the counter.
"Umm... can we have a piece of one of your cakes, please?" asked Mathilde. The wasted girl behind the counter indicated to a display case, filled with chocolate cakes, covered in coloured sprinkles. They look like children's birthday cakes, I thought to myself.
Mathilde pointed to one. "We'll have some of that one," she said.
"One slice, or two?" asked Stoner Girl.
"ONE!" Mathilde and I said in unison, perhaps a little two quickly and loudly.
"For here, or take away?"
We looked at each other. "Maybe we should take it back to our hotel and eat it," said Mathilde. "You know, in case Anything Happens."
"Take away," I answered Stoner Girl. She sliced a generous portion, placed it in a brown paper bag, and took our money.
Mathilde and I practically ran back to the hotel, the bag placed surreptitiously under my coat (I have NO idea why, it wasn't like we were breaking the law). Once we arrived at the hotel, Mathilde looked at me.
"Why don't you go put on your pajamas, and then meet me in my room. It's probably a good idea if we change into sleepwear, you know, in case Anything Happens."
Okay, I have no idea what we thought would happen, but sadly, this suggestion seemed like good common sense to me. I went up to my room, changed into my pajamas, and returned to Mathilde's room and knocked on the door.
We sat on the bed, and opened up the bag. We placed the cake on the bed. And then we stared at it.
"Well, go ahead," said Mathilde. "Try some."
"You try some."
"No, you."
"Oh for Christ's sake," I said. "Fine. I'll try some." I broke off a small piece of the cake, and put it in my mouth.
Mathilde looked at me eagerly. "What does it taste like?"
"Umm, it tastes like..." I said, munching slowly. "..umm....it tastes like cake. Like mediocre, dry, store-bought cake."
Mathilde's face fell. "Really?" she took a bite. "Oh. It does."
We ate as much as we could stomach, and then we waited.
And waited.
After two hours of watching bad Dutch TV, I looked at Mathilde. "Um, I'm not feeling anything. Are you?"
"Not a damned, thing," she said. "And I'm sleepy."
"Me too," I said. "I'm going back to my room. G'night."
"G'night."
I returned to my room, sober as a judge. I ended up forcing myself to stay awake for another two hours, in the hopes of feeling ...something. No dice.
The next morning, over breakfast, Mathilde and I decided that the whole experience was pretty much a bust. "Should we try again tonight?" Mathilde asked.
"Um, I don't think so. I mean, we're in our mid-thirties. It's sort of sad to be trying pot for the first time in our mid-thirties, isn't it?"
Mathilde, took a deep breath, relief sweeping across her face. "Yes. I agree. Let's go shopping, instead."
Since that time, however, I can never look at a chocolate cake with coloured sprinkles without thinking about that fateful night. And every time I make a chocolate cake with coloured sprinkles (for Alex's birthday, say), or worse, Alex helps me make a chocolate cake with coloured sprinkles (like the one we made yesterday for Marcus' birthday, shown above), I can't help feeling a strong pang of guilt. I'm a bad mother, I think to myself. I'm sitting here, subconsciously introducing my daughter to the seedy drug underworld, merely by baking this cake. I'm a bad, bad, mom. And the guilt stays with me until the last bite is consumed.
And so, dear readers, please heed my advice, lest the same fate befall you:
If you're ever in Amsterdam, go ahead and inhale. Otherwise, YOU MAY RUIN YOUR BIRTHDAY-CAKE-BAKING EXPERIENCE FOR THE REST OF YOUR NATURAL LIFE.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to grab a slice of cake. I've sort of got the munchies.
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