Maximum Yield Cannabis USA April/May 2018 | Page 73

Once everyone arrives, all the
samples get laid out and we commence
tasting each dish. When dinner is
finished, every challenger gets to
vote off the dish they liked the least.
Whichever dish gets the most votes
loses. There can be only one loser, and
there is no winner.
It is the best potluck you’ll ever attend
in your life.
Also, it turns out nobody cares that
much about winning, but everybody
cares that much about losing. In that
way, Potluck Challenge is a metaphor
for life. Few people are motivated to
win; most people succeed at life be-
cause they are terrified to lose at it.
Case in point: my Grade 6 track and
field event. My strength was shorter
sprints. Anything longer than two hun-
dred meters and I was winded. During
tryouts, however, I was forced to partici-
pate in an 800-meter race.
The other runners and I were stag-
gered on a round track to equal out the
distances. Positioned directly behind
me was my arch enemy, Karen Larsen.
I think I hated her because she was
always wearing new and fashionable
clothing to school, and I only ever wore
out-of-date, hand-me-down clothes from
my sisters. In hindsight, that year had
been particularly sparse because my
sisters had recently turned 16 and 17
years old, stopped growing, and started
smoking cigarettes.
That year, I had only one pair of jeans.
They had long zippers that started on
the side near the hip and zipped all
the way down to the hem. I could zip
them up to make them tighter or zip
them down to make them looser. At the
beginning of Grade 6, those zippers
were all the way up to the hip. At the
end of the year, they were all the way
down to the hem.
My oldest sister, Lissi, started laughing
at me over breakfast one morning. She
said I “always wore the same thing”
and that she thought I was “gross.”
“These are the only pair of pants I
have,” I protested.
“
I LEARNED A VALUABLE
LESSON THAT DAY:
WINNING ISN’T THE POINT;
”
NOT LOSING IS.
myhydrolife.com
Everyone had a good laugh around
the table at my expense. My family was
rough that way. We were all stiff upper
lip and no mambi pambi. My mother,
waving her spatula around, demanded
to know why I didn’t ask for a new pair
of pants. I shrugged my shoulders. I was
the youngest of four kids; I had never
asked my parents for clothes before.
Shoes and clothes, always used, just
magically appeared in my bedroom. I
didn’t even know you could ask for new
clothes. Being a kid is weird that way.
So, back to the 800-meter tryouts, where
Karen Larsen was situated behind me in
her fancy new track suit. I, mortified, was
in faded and stretched out Adidas shorts.
The gun went off and I started running
faster then I had ever run before. There
was no way this preppy bitch was going
to beat me. Winning wasn’t even close
to my goal. Not losing to Karen Larsen
was my ONLY goal. Normally, I would
peter out after two hundred meters, but
not this time. When I heard her deep
breaths catching up behind me, I ran
even faster. I ran so hard I came in third
place out of eight.
I turned around to toss a victory
glance at my nemesis, but she and
her matching track suit were nowhere
in sight. Instead, there was Janie
Johnson saying, “Holy shit, Dunsdon,
you never ran so fast!”
That year, I ran the 800-meter relay
in our provincial-level track and field
meet. I lost.
What does sixth-grade track and
field have to do with potluck parties?
Everything. I learned a valuable lesson
that day: winning isn’t the point; not
losing is. I didn’t want to beat Karen;
I only didn’t want to lose. It was the
greatest motivator.
Potluck challenge wasn’t created
because I had been to a bunch of great
potlucks. It was designed because I’d
been to a bunch of shitty ones.
Delicious food in a restaurant didn’t
inspire me to cook at home. Mediocre
food did.
Similarly, when I challenged the courts
over my gingersnap cookies, it wasn’t
to prove I was right. It was to avoid
being proven wrong and labeled a
criminal. My run for city councillor was
not because I was happy about the city
and how it was being run. I ran because
I was pissed off with our current
leadership, or lack thereof.
Thanks, Karen Larsen.

All bad things can become good, if
you let them. So, when life gives you
lemons, make these amazing Lemon
MeReggae Tarts.
LEMON
MEREGGAE TARTS
These are ridiculously amazing. If
you want, skip the shake-and-butter
step to make unadulterated lemon
tarts, which are also ridiculously
amazing. I’m here to help.
TARTS
12 tart shells
6 grams shake flour
3 tbsp butter, divided
¾ cup white sugar
¼ cup freshly squeezed lemon
juice
2 eggs
Zest of 1 lemon
• Bake tart shells at 350˚F until golden
brown. Set aside to cool.
• Sauté shake flour and 1 tbsp of butter
on medium heat for two minutes.
Then, add sugar, juice, eggs, and
zest. Whisk together until smooth.
• Still on medium heat, stir mixture
constantly until it thickens.
• Turn off heat and add 2 tbsp of
butter. Let butter slowly melt
into mixture.
• Pour mixture into baked tart shells
and let cool.
MERINGUE TOPPING
2 egg whites
¹/� tsp cream of tartar (optional)
½ tsp vanilla
4 tbsp white sugar
• Beat egg whites on high.
• As you beat eggs, add the vanilla
and cream of tartar first. Then, add
the sugar one tablespoon at a time
until very stiff peaks appear.
• Top your cooled tarts with the
meringue topping and bake at
350˚F for six minutes or until the
meringue is a light golden brown.
grow. heal. learn. enjoy.
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