Baked Goods: Cool It Down

Cg And The Art Of Running

Joshua Lee
5 min read
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I walked out the door wearing a hoodie and squinted in the sun. It feels like the spring barely started and it’s already heading out the door wearing flip flops and a dollop of sunscreen on its nose. My brain still thinks it’s winter. Maybe it was the lack of snow. Maybe I’ve been inside too long. I went back and lost the hoodie.

The drive to Santa Fe seemed longer than usual. Halfway there, my mother (who lives in Houston) called me to say that her house is almost back to 100 percent after being flooded by Hurricane Harvey last year. The news is paled by notes on her continuing medical problems. I’ve tried to talk her into moving somewhere that has access to medical cannabis, but that would mean leaving her home of two decades and a successful career.

I suppose I could encourage her to go out to the park near her house with $20 in her pocket. I know for a fact she could pick up some kill from the shady guys who hang out by the swing set, but
Texas doesn’t play around with their drug laws, and she’s just as liable to land herself in jail as she is to ease her symptoms. State law on the Third Coast penalizes those in possession of two ounces or less of cannabis (that’s less than what I smoke in a month, mind you) with a Class B misdemeanor—punishable by up to 180 days in a cell and a fine not to exceed $2,000.

It’s a tragedy. And it would do me well to keep it in mind the next time I start howling about our state’s meandering climb to legalization. (I mean, really. Can you believe this shit is taking so long?) By the time I made it to CG, I was ready to hug whoever answered the door and kiss them on the mouth. I refrained.

The Santa Fe location just popped up earlier this year, but I’m familiar with the one in Albuquerque. It’s one of the few places I still stop at regularly. Their prices on flower are amazing—always going for under $10 a gram—and they have some of the highest quality you’ll find in the entire state.

It’s a smaller building than at the Albuquerque location and seemed to have less of a crowd—surprising, since the menu didn’t have any flower priced higher than $9 a gram. I was helped by Stew, a familiar face from the other store. Feeling adventurous and unrestrained after my conversation (and the ensuing sense of thankfulness), I let him pick out two strains for me. He chose a couple of hybrids:
Jamaican Dream (THC: 17.73%, CBD: unlisted—$9/gram) and Bubblicious (THC: 13.18%, CBD: unlisted—$9/gram).

I stopped by the plaza on the way out and bought a coffee. It dawned on me that I no longer get lost when I come to Santa Fe. My first few trips generally found me driving in collapsing concentric circles while I cursed the hippies watching from the sidewalks and threatened God. (One of my worst moments was on a trip to find the dayglo freakout gallery Meow Wolf. It’s located at the corner of three streets with the same name. I’ll let you come to your own conclusions about the nature of space-time after you chew on that factoid.)

I looked out the coffee shop’s window and knew the name of the road without looking for the sign or thinking too hard. It was time to go home and probably never come back. The trip was much quicker on the return drive.

I wanted to get into the
Jamaican Dream first. I’d smelled it at the counter and my mind had been drifting to it over and again the whole way home. It was sweet and tart, and tickled my nose back where the sinuses touch the brain. This sativa-dominant flower had a mossy and swampy taste that gave an extra depth to the sweet and heady scent. The effects creeped up on me, taking a few hits to register—the most noticeable being a giddy sense of well-being. Thoughts of kidnapping my mother and dragging her to New Mexico began to fade and I noticed the usual cycling chatter in my brain had cooled to a steady thrum. I became talkative and laughed a lot. I listened to music and whistled a different song while I made dinner.

After a meal that was made entirely better by the fuzzy lightness in my step, I packed a bowl of
Bubblicious. Although considered a hybrid, the indica side of this strain was the most apparent to me. By the second hit, I was relaxed and sedated. I sat for some time watching songbirds play hopscotch on the patio. I heard the sounds of an orchestra tuning up and realized it was the air conditioner turning on. I went outside and stood in the last rays of the sun. I shivered a little.


802 Early St., Santa Fe

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