“The food here is terrible, and the portions are too small.“ -Woody Allen
While walking into my favorite gas station to pick up a pack of Nat Sherman Fantasias for my lady, I noticed a rather disturbing product on the counter next to the cash register and canister of off-brand Slim Jims. (Beef Chevys. Don’t even ask.) Another mari…sh looking, pot…entially overbaked “relaxation” confection? Oh my god. I hadn’t even realized I’d missed it, despite my lack of interest for frequenting truck stops and gas stations. Humiliated and ashamed at my neglect of one of Foodette’s core demographics, the 13-15 year old private schooled class clown, performing a Google search for “lesbian food critic BBW”, I slunk home with this brownie, determined to get to the bottom of this.
Turns out I’m not only missing this one, but another, more disturbingly named product called the Lulla Pie. Jesus. It sounds like a gateway drug to hell. After the success and annoying, placebo effect induced comments of my Lazy Cakes post, I decided to cash in on the scandal and check out what Kush Cakes had to offer, even though my enthusiasm for weed-based products, actual weed (thanks, Massachusetts State Legistlation!) and anything from Spencer Gifts has waned since the bombing of Showtime’s Weeds. Mary Louise Parker, we never knew ye or your hot lesbian makeout sessions.
As my trained package critic’s eye can see, and yes, that applies to packages of all kinds, Charlie Sheen, the graphics on Kush Cakes pack more fun-filled activities, characters, and FDA unapproved warnings on it than a cereal box. MSPaint McTokerson tells us that this is 100% legal and, wantonly emblazoned in the upper lefthand corner, we learn that a real live licensed pharmacist, not one of those paid TV actors, developed this proprietary blend for my pleasure. Do the makers of Kush Cakes even know what proprietary means? And furthermore, once looking it up in motherfucking Funk ‘n’ Wagnells, do they want to stick by that scurrilous adjective?
Those of us who had mothers who loved us in grade school and participated in all the PTA bake sales know that this pastry isn’t taking home any prizes. Personally, I wouldn’t claim ownership to this even if it won the coveted deadbeat dad favorite prize in the afterschool betting pool. I’m so surprised that with delicious ingredients like valerian, rose hips, and malodextrin, this would taste so crappy and gross. For starters, it’s not a pretty princess of a brownie, it’s a malformed, tiny old turd in a tie-dyed package. Oh, sorry- welcome to Woodstock, Arlo Guthrie! I’d be willing to overlook that if it tasted like the farts of Pinkerton-era Rivers Cuomo, but it’s fairly disgusting. Its exterior glistens and sparkles like a certain loveable vampire friend of the youth, and in the three second car ride and ten minute cigarette break back home, managed to crumble off a few flaky, chocolatey dandruff pieces with the hardened exterior of an exoskeleton.
I don’t imagine these will succeed well in the market, especially with the discerning doobie palate of today. Connoisseurs will age their Lazy Cakes and hawk their homemade fare, but cast these aside for a higher quality treat. The herbal, grainy texture and stale scent, like salty, chocolate Play Doh makes for a rather unappealing snack. With a predominantly salty and grassy flavor, these aren’t so much brownies so much as they are edible public service announcements for militant parents to “illustrate” what cannabutter can do to your baked goods. Ridged for her pleasure, natch.
Oh, and as for the effect? Relaxation? Please. My girlfriend is still convinced she’s dating the not-yet-reincarnated soul of a post-night club years Woody Allen in a sexier body. I don’t relax, I sweat. Pass the fucking brisket and get me some real food.