Her mom extracted a brownie dish from the outside refrigerator.
"Who made these?" she inquired.
My friend's face folded into ceaseless smile creases as she grasped that for one of the first times in her life she wasn't involved and couldn't be implicated.
Her sister said with a grimace, "Oh. I did, Mom. Sorry."
"After lunch I was out here, saw these, and ate some!" their mom announced.
Her sister had baked the brownies with such a potent amount of marijuana butter that seasoned consumers only absorb an amount smaller than a peewee chicken egg per session. Her mother had swallowed four times the suggested supply.
"I'm not even capable of working anymore," she told her daughters as they fractured into laughter. "It's not funny!" she continued.
An hour later she became paranoid. Her husband called poison control but refused her entreaties to call an ambulance. Two hours later she sat on the living room couch, head in hands, focusing on breathing like it was her firstborn child. Four hours later her husband and daughter put her to bed. The next morning and sixteen hours after initial consumption she woke up still high from her daughter's pot brownies.
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