Edible review: Coda Signature Caramel & Corn white chocolate bar

by Sir Blaze Ridcully

I don’t purchase edibles very often, but when I do it’s usually for a special occasion. This week in particular called for a heavy-handed substance, as I would be spending the next few days with my siblings in the woods, slapping away mosquitoes and dreaming of a bathroom with a sink. Not exactly my forte.

To take the edge off of what I assumed would be a, well, interesting week, I went with a Coda Signature Caramel & Corn white chocolate bar from Prohibition Herb in Durango, hoping it’d do the job. The beautifully packaged box came with 10 pieces at about 10 mg of THC a pop.

I thought I’d be able to hold out until late in the evening before sedating myself with one of the chocolates, but when we arrived at our campsite to find that our only water source other than a river had a sign plastered over the top of it stating, “DO NOT USE,” I found myself digging out a piece shortly after we unpacked. My companions, not thrilled about the water situation either, joined me.

I gotta be frank here. I was a little worried about how this would taste. Edibles can be such a hit or miss, and the last couple of times I’ve struck out with them. Fortunately, Coda is on their A-game when it comes to their fancy chocolate delectables, and it gave the excellent illusion of chewing a handful of popcorn mixed with delicious, gooey caramel and a sea salt aftertaste to balance out the sweet factor. As someone who is on Team Savory when it comes to snacks, I appreciated the salty finale.

If I wasn’t certain eating a second piece would end in disaster (aka me hiding under my car whispering that we’re living in The Matrix … I don’t react very well to edibles) I would have eaten a second piece, or maybe even the whole bar. It was delicious, which was good because I needed a substance to help me deal with the fact that I’d be camping for the next few days.

In case you haven’t picked up on it yet: I. Hate. Camping.

I realize saying such a thing is a desecration of the Southwest spirit, but there you have it. Call me a heretic if you must, but some of us can’t handle the discovering a rattlesnake crawled into their sleeping bag (something the camp manager warned us about) or the idea that a large bush of poison oak was a mere few feet from our tent waiting for unsuspecting victims (us) to casually walk by so it could wrap its vined tendrils around our limbs. That part may have been the weed.

Speaking of weed, I was very high.

My head felt like a hot air balloon, ready to take off and float away back to civilization. Back to a bed that didn’t make my back hurt. Back to running water that wouldn’t poison me. I was instead in the middle of the woods eating overcooked sausage and beans and staring at the roof of my tent waiting for the force of sleep to strike me down. Or lightning. Didn’t matter.

Eventually, sleep did find me, but not the stone-cold slumber I’d been hoping for. I woke up several times to the sound of footsteps outside our tent. Normally I’d attribute this to me imagining things because, well, I was high and half awake, but the next morning, my sister confirmed she heard those same noises. In our stupor, however, instead of trying to use a flashlight as a makeshift weapon, we just rolled over and hoped that whoever/whatever it was wasn’t a serial killer or a flesh-eating monster and would just go away. To our credit, this tactic did work, but this is why the stoners always die in horror movies.

Unfortunately, we didn’t get to try a second round of these treats because SOMEONE (OK, fine, it was me.) put the container in the cooler thinking it would preserve it. It did quite the opposite. Apparently, ice does this thing called melt and by the end of our road trip, there was a lake at the bottom of our cooler. A (very expensive) concentrate and the Coda bar were among the waterlogged casualties, killing any hope we had for using weed as a coping mechanism for the remainder of the journey.

Alas, we were grateful for the short time we had together. RIP camping weed.

Sir Blaze Ridcully


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