Via Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

Elsie Duque Hills

Co-Managing Editor

Reefers. Mary Jane. The Devil’s lettuce. Humanity’s indulgence in THC, formally known as tetrahydrocannabinol, has rarely been discrete. From reluctant tokes in your mother’s dingy basement to medicinal cannabidiol before a business meeting, the drug’s prevailing usage has undoubtedly cemented its space in our society.

The smell lingers like an old friend you used to know. Take a careful trek through Mont-Royal park and you might just be lucky enough to observe the distinct subtlety of that stained overhead cloud. A shroud that hangs far too low to be soaked with rain, carrying a signature stench that grips onto the sherpa lining of your autumn coat.

As Cannabis use becomes increasingly prevalent, the drug has cultivated unique meanings within differing social frameworks. Rebellious teenagers sneakily indulge to feel like John Lydon, Dawson students smoke J’s before their 8 AM humanities classes, and professors certainly aren’t opposed to some nighttime CBD self-care. And, although these walks of life, reasons, and excuses may appear starkly different at face value, there are standout commonalities that put the ‘We’ in Weed.

As I’ve grown to indulge in the ‘finer’ things life has to offer, I’ve begun to notice a strange habit curled into the inebriated behaviour of individuals.

There is perhaps no rite more sacred in the stoner’s universe than the post-toke refrigerator pilgrimage. It is a systematic sequence that follows a rigid chain of events.

After losing a battle against incessant giggles, and pursuing a lengthy hour of existential chatter —the clock strikes midnight. This is the precise moment when your inner Dr. Jekyll hides away, and the foul Mr. Hyde comes to play.

Suddenly, your disgruntled figure hobbles towards the kitchen. As you creak open the fridge door, a pool of divine light bathes your stoned features. The stale fragments of whole-wheat tortillas hidden in the depths of your fridge become a delicacy and a fistful of chocolate chips strangely distorts into a five-course menu. The distinction between sustenance and gluttony is gone, and the act of eating takes on a significance that is utterly laughable to the sober observer.

However, don’t be fooled: the careful intersection between hunger and cannabis is no Robert Louis Stevenson myth. Cannabis compounds interact with the body’s endocannabinoid system, which simultaneously influences appetite as well as the brain’s reward pathways. Ultimately, this relationship is what makes food so pleasurable. The aforementioned bodily fervor is especially true when paired with saccharine, sugary foods or deliciously greasy meals. Moreover, inhaled cannabis has been shown to increase the levels of hormones that are linked to appetite.

Cannabis distorts our senses and perceptions of food so deeply that we turn nearly unrecognizable, condemned to an insatiable lust for devouring. We seem to savour things in a way that is exceptional to our tastebuds. A novel world of secret flavours is exposed to our brains; suddenly, we can’t get enough of the high. Familiar foods acquire somewhat of a theatrical quality, where their identities become veiled by the idyllic mask of Thalia. As such, the business of eating becomes an intricate ritual.

The relationship between cannabis and food extends far beyond a midnight raid on a stale pack of pretzels. An entire industry composed of brightly-coloured THC-infused gummies to gourmet MasterChef-style edibles has made itself ever-so apparent. What was once the stuff of basement folklore has jarringly found its way onto the spread sheets of entrepreneurs, who are just itching to turn drug dependence into a get-rich-quick scheme. The unification of marijuana and gastronomy was inevitable, seeing as capitalism has never been keen on leaving desires unexploited.

The irony is that the munchies were never a particularly glamorous notion to begin with. They stayed reserved to a crumpled bag of who-knows-what tossed around between friends, and to those late-night kitchen confessions that somehow made perfect sense at the ripe hour of two in the morning. The very same colloquial culture has now adopted a bourgeois veneer. Our inebriated appetites have remained constant, but the ways in which our gluttony is plated has evidently evolved.

The authenticity of a stoner’s pantry has been ransacked, simply to be morphed into yet another business plan. Greedy entrepreneurs have stripped down a cult-classic pastime and molded it into a shiny experience. Not even the munchies are safe from gentrification.

As such, perhaps the cannabis-induced emergence of our Mr. Hyde isn’t such a terrible thing. Let Hyde roam free, but let us not mistake the hand that feeds him for a friend. We must redirect our primalistic tendencies away from our late night snacks. Embrace the high, but never forget the true lurkers profiting from your voracity.