Grandma and Magic Mushrooms
Seventeen years old, living with my twenty-four-year-old boyfriend and three dogs, and bored out of my fucking mind, I got myself into a pickle and cheated on him. Not my wisest decision, but it broke the monotony for a brief moment. I moved out of that house, and into the new guy’s house, which also wasn’t the wisest choice. I simply traded one bad situation for another. I realized that something needed to change.
At that point, my mom had moved out to British Columbia to get help with my grandparents who were aging. Her sister and a lot of my extended family lived there, and it was one of my favorite things of summer to travel to the Okanagan for summer holidays. It was hot, beautiful, full of lakes and mountains, and an escape from the flat lands of Alberta.
I made a flash decision one night that it was time for me to leave.
I told my boyfriend that it would be temporary, knowing full well that once I moved out there I would never look back. I packed up everything I owned into the back of my pickup truck, and said my goodbyes. I was off on an adventure, and ready to take on the world. Somehow I knew that this decision was going to change my life forever, and I wasn’t wrong.
Arriving in British Columbia, I realized I had made one major mistake in my decision. Despite all my good intentions, I had forgotten to tell my mom that I was coming, and showed up at my uncle’s house where she was living at the time expecting to have a place to stay. I didn’t think through the concept that I might have to ask permission to stay there. The thought never crossed my mind; I simply assumed that I would be welcomed.
Turned out I wasn’t exactly welcome.
I was given permission to stay there for a few weeks while we figured out another solution. I was unemployed, had very little money, and was mooching off Mom. I was completely oblivious of the advantage I was taking from everyone and was in a state of entitlement. In my mind, I expected people to take care of me, and feel sorry for my predicament.
Soon after, we found a solution, and I moved into my grandmother's house. I wasn’t super keen on living with my aging grandmother, but it was better than living with my uncle with whom I was continuously butting heads. Grandma’s house it was. I settled in, and we found our rhythm. It wasn’t too bad! She made me cookies, I practiced my cooking skills, and we watched crap TV together. We had some serious bonding moments in that home.
One weekend, she decided to go on a trip with my mom and aunt, so I had the house to myself. I immediately decided that was my moment to invite my new boyfriend over and have some fun. I purchased the mushrooms and made magic mushroom spaghetti sauce. We laughed and laughed, and rearranged all of grandma’s furniture.
It was harmless… Until Grandma returned home!
I had put all the furniture back in order before she returned, so she never knew that anything went down that weekend. However, she was hungry when she got home and started rummaging through the fridge.
I was in my room, getting ready to head out to hang out with friends. I decided it was time to go and headed out to the kitchen to let grandma know where I was going. My eighty-year-old grandmother was sitting down to a heaping plate of magic mushroom spaghetti. I stood there in a panic. What should I do? How do I explain to her that she can’t eat it, without alarming her about the fact that the food was full of drugs?
Fork hanging mid-air, ready to go into her mouth, I shouted, “STOP!”
She jumped, startled at my reaction, and a look of confusion crossed her face. I quickly jumped to an answer in my mind and told her that the sauce was super spicy and that she wouldn’t like it. Thank God she didn’t like spicy food, and she agreed with my logic. She stopped the fork from going into her mouth, and I began to breathe again. The adrenaline pumping through my blood, I grabbed her plate and threw the rest of the food into the garbage.
The fact that I almost drugged my grandmother only affected me for a short time, but the story stuck with me forever. I would never forget the look on her face when I yelled at her, and I would never forget how I felt. It would be years before I could forgive myself for my actions, and years later before I could learn to laugh at myself for my antics.