I might need some of that tiramisu.
I'm no chef, but I like to cook. One time, many years back, when you could still pretty freely send weed through the mail, my brother sent me a 1/4 oz. of some KILLER shit. I hadn't smoked in months (I was a poor student). I was in the middle of something when it arrived, so I put it away.
I was whipping up some stir-fry specialty or another, when I remembered that delivery. I was at a point where I could stop cooking for a minute, so I broke up a small bud, and did a bong.
There was about another bong hit left, and as we all know a broken up bud is like mixing a drink -- you've got to smoke it/drink it right then. You don't save it for later, for crying out loud! I mean the stuff was good, but that doesn't mean a guy who hasn't smoked in months shouldn't do two bong hits in rapid succession, does it? I knew you'd understand.
So I got back to cooking.
The rest of the story can be summed up in two words: delayed effect. Did I say two words? Let me add three more: holy living fuck!
So I'm standing there at the stove, slaving over it, because that's what you do at a hot stove, and then I realized my heart was beating kind of fast. Then I realized my knees were wobbly. That's about the time I began pondering about the person who invented the first chair, and how much we owe to him/her.
"Quick! I need a chair!" I commanded.
One was supplied, and I finished cooking while seated. I no longer had a visual on what was going on in the wok, but I didn't fucking care.
A few stray food chunks took the opportunity of my impaired state to make a run for it, and jumped out of the wok. Some went under the stove, and probably remain there to this day, in mummified form.
So what was the point of all this? Oh yeah, I like to stir-fry. I do a killer Kung Pao Chicken, and only once have I needed a chair to finish.
