The ganja smoke swirls in circles over my head as I gaze at the fast-moving motherwaters. Memories of past adventures, friends, and lovers flit through my head as the cool summer breeze dances off the water. Living in air-conditioning just doesn’t stack up to sitting on the banks of "The River" smoking a big fatty.
You don’t call any old river "The River." Only the Mississippi garners this much respect. That’s because she drains 75 per cent of the nation east of the Continental Divide! When I come here, I feel more at ease partaking of the sacred herb, because few police are present. The only thing I have to worry about is some hot-dog conservation officer trying to catch me fishing without a license.
I’ve been partying on the river for years with large groups of my hippie brothers and sisters on camping trips. We used to be considered an "invasion force." The locals didn’t know how to react when we showed up at local honky-tonks and restaurants. You could hear rednecks grumbling, "Damned hippies from out of town are trying to take over the place!"
But you know what? After years of our returning to the same place, the rednecks kind of got used to us showing up annually. I began to realize that not all rednecks and river rats were prejudiced against me and the hippies. Hell, I found out that they loved to smoke the weed as much as I did! In fact, I’ve made lifelong friendships out here in the land I call "Forgot-onia." Van and Deb and the Ropeman have kept me high and well fed over the years. They have a farm far out in the country and have even named their catfish pond after me. One year the Ropeman took us to a mini-honky-tonk riverboat called the Addie May. It was outfitted with a pool table, jukebox, and a bar stocked to the gills. The skipper was a redneck named Captain Don. He greeted all hippies with open arms: "All right, kids. We got the bar for your refreshment plus catfish, hush puppies, buttermilk, and apple pie. But please, if you will, smoking is allowed only on the upper deck. Save the women and children from stress—if you know what I mean!"
Captain looked straight at me and gave me a wink. No problem, I winked back. We climbed to the top deck. I started rolling, rolling, rolling on the river. Clouds of smoke drifted away in our wake. We didn’t need smokestacks to look like a true steamboat.
2 fresh heads broccoli, chopped to leave only the florets
3 cups cooked rice
1 lb shredded cheddar cheese
1 stick of butter or margarine
2 tbsp vegetable oil
1 cup chopped yellow onion
1 cup chopped celery
3 cloves chopped garlic
1 cup morel or moonlight mushrooms
1/4 cup slivered almonds
1/4-oz fine buds or ganja leaves
1/2 cup breadcrumbs (cut into small cubes)
1 can of mushroom soup
In a double boiler pot (one pot that fits inside the other separated by water), heat the butter over low to moderate flame. Place ganja in the butter and cook for 45 minutes. Watch closely, making sure not to burn the butter. Strain the ganja particulate from the butter and set aside. Grease a 9x13-inch pan with vegetable oil. Pour the broccoli, rice, cheese, onion, celery, garlic, mushroom, almonds, and mushroom soup into the pan. Soak the breadcrumbs in the butter. Then place the breadcrumbs over the entire mixture and bake for 45-60 minutes at 350Â°F. Serves 6.