
When my daughter Loretta was 3, her preschool posted a six-foot chart on butcher paper with the names of the students in a vertical column. Southern Californiaās many wonderful citrus fruits appeared in a horizontal list along the top. Within the grid, smiley faces, frowns, and blank expressions recorded how much the students liked, or disliked, each fruit. It was all very nice, except for the black X beside each entry for Loretta, who did not try even one of the fruits.
Loretta is now 5. She still does not eat fruits or vegetables. (Please no suggestions; Iāve heard them all). Iāve come to respect her preferences. At her age, free will is limited, and with so many other options now off-limits, Iām fine with granting her the freedom to ignore the plant kingdom.
Freedom, naturally, has been on my mind quite a bit recently ā the kind of freedom, for example, that allowed me to move to Amsterdam when I was 21 and stay for nearly seven years doing odd jobs and making even odder friends. Iāve been reliving this period as I pedal in place on my spin bike and remember weaving in and out of traffic along Dutch canals; when I walked the usual circuit in my neighborhood looking at the not-new stuff; and especially when I consider my frustrated 5-year-old, wondering, hoping, and praying that she gets to experience what now seems like a luxury: the joy of packing up and going to a place that makes your parents anxious.
People assume I spent my Amsterdam years in a thundercloud of Nepalese Temple Ball hash or with my lips glued to a joint the size of a recorder. I used to go out of my way to debunk these myths and justify my reasons for staying abroad (culture, opportunity, creativity), but sure, weed was smoked, baked, ingested. As it turns out, those experiences have also turned into unexpected inspiration whenever Iām in the kitchen.
In the good old days of freedom and, you know, restaurants, there would come a moment before each meal with Loretta when my stomach would tighten and my anger would rise at the likelihood of my daughter refusing to eat, eating reluctantly, or perhaps even throwing her food. As I faced a lockdown requiring me to make and feed her three meals a day, I began to panic. There would be other challenges, I knew, but cajoling her every morning, noon, and night to please just goddamn eat, seemed insurmountable. I am an avid and adventurous cook who was raised on the ritual of sitting down to a family dinner, so Lorettaās aversion to mealtime is especially aggravating, painful even.
So imagine my surprise when salvation arrived in the form of a Rice Krispies treat.
It happened a few days into sheltering at home, when I discovered a forgotten box containing Christmasācolored Rice Krispies, some mini-marshmallows, a bag of chocolate chips, and the dregs of some holiday sprinkles.
Loretta and I werenāt just going to make Rice Krispie treats. We were going to make something gloriously and spectacularly unnatural. And yes, our treats ended up looking thrillingly like something two stoners might make for a Christmas party.
Two days later, Loretta, who rarely tells me she wants a particular food, requested French toast for dinner. Of late sheās also been keen on American cheese slices (I am unreasonably pleased about this), so I slapped a few on the French toast, added ham, pressed it, doused it with powdered sugar, and served it. She asked for another. As I obliged, I realized I was cooking without tension or anxiety. I watched her gobble up that second helping of French toast and ācheeseā like someone with a serious case of the munchies, and I knew ā the way anyone knows after a few turns at the gravity bong ā that I was onto something. And so #StonerFoodsOfTheApolocalpyse, my personal hashtag to describe Lorettaās current meals, was born.
None of the offerings on the #StonerFoodsOfTheApocalypse menu are planned in advance; they each just appear ⦠organically, as a way to cope with the daily grind of three meals a day at home. Third day of meatloaf? Slide a slice into a hard-shell taco. Same for meatballs. You might also make a double-decker meatloaf cheeseburger because doesnāt that sound rad?
Why serve Nutella, or some healthier off-brand variant, on a roll when you can make it into a sāmore panini with marshmallow fluff? And Iām here to tell you that homemade chicken fingers are infinitely better when coated in Frosted Flakes. (Adults can even marinate their chicken in Frankās RedHot sauce before coating).
Cooking this way is part puzzle, part challenge, part inspiration, part necessity, but always a slam dunk when it comes to alleviating tension around mealtime. These creations make me laugh, which makes me relax, and that relaxes Loretta.
Now, before you scold me for my kidās diet, or for the fact that Iām entertaining her and myself by preparing concoctions you might find on a Reddit thread, Iād like to point out that (a) she does eat healthier things like salmon and rice and beans, and (b) the glory of great stoner food is that it isnāt about being stupid; itās about being resourceful.
Stoners, after all, are the ultimate experts at working with whatās on hand: crafting a pipe out of an apple, a potato, or maybe a summer sausage. With food emergencies ā when youāre stoned, itās often an emergency when it comes to food ā stoners donāt have the patience to hit the supermarket for reasonable ingredients. They cobble things together based on hunger and imagination. They make peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches with chocolate-chip cookies; they put barbecue sauce and shredded cheese on pasta. Doritos are a perfectly acceptable pizza topping. And I cannot think of a better time than right now to embrace this approach. So while others are peddling black-market sourdough starter, proofing croissants, and making their own everything bagels, Iāve taken a track that provides immediate gratification, goofy joy, and has ushered in an era of peaceful meals.
Naturally, Loretta isnāt here for the nuance or the irony of what Iām preparing. Sheās here for the fun. Sheās here for the surprising mixture of familiar and adventurous. Sheās here for corn dogs sticking out of bowls of udon, and for mamaās homemade McGriddles.
Someday, she and I wonāt be stuck at home together anymore, and Iāll miss it. Sheāll go back to school and then off into the world, to college, or maybe even to Amsterdam. Somewhere along the way, sheāll probably figure out what I was up to during the COVID-19 lockdown. Hopefully it will make her laugh then as much as it makes me laugh now, and hopefully sheāll be stone-cold sober when she does.
IvyĀ PochodaĀ is the author of the novelsĀ Visitation StreetĀ ,Ā Wonder Valley, and These Women.