Haunted At The The High Table

A virtual Halloween cook-along, a cryptic newcomer named Shadow Weaver, and a blackberry gummy that turns the night electric, this is the story of how a simple edible became a shared moment of wonder. We gather at the High Table with costumes, cobwebs, and a plan to swap recipes, then stumble into a poetic set of instructions that walk the line between kitchen craft and kitchen spell. The result is a deeply purple, precisely dosed treat we can all make at home, wrapped in a mood that invites curiosity and play.

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Chapters

• 1:09 Welcome To Vite Me
• 1:56 A Spooky Halloween Gathering
• 4:17 Enter Shadow Weaver
• 5:22 Ghostly Gummies Recipe Unveiled
• 7:24 Cooking Together, Theatrical Tips
• 9:20 Taste Test And Temperature Drop
• 10:58 The Cannabis Leaf Spirits Appear
• 13:11 Playful Phenomena In The Kitchens

Transcript

SPEAKER_00: 1:09

What happens when you take a love of food, a passion for culture, and a deep knowledge of cannabis, and you toss them into one big cauldron? You get Vite Me, the podcast that explores the intersection of food, culture, and cannabis and helps cooks make great edibles at home. I am your host, Margaret, a certified gangier, a TCI certified cannabis educator, and I believe your kitchen is the best dispensary you'll ever have. Together we'll explore the stories, the science, and the sheer joy of making safe, effective, and unforgettable edibles at home. So preheat your oven and get ready for a great episode. Let's dive in, shall we? Hello, my wonderful Bite Me family, and welcome to a very special, very spooky Halloween episode. I'm your host, Margaret, and today or tonight, depending on when you're listening to this, I have a story to share with you. It's a true tale, or at least as true as any story can be when cannabis edibles and Halloween night collide. So grab your favorite infused treat, get comfortable, and let me tell you about the night that the high table got haunted. It was Halloween night, just last year. I had organized a virtual Halloween party for the Bite Me Canvas Club, and the turnout was incredible. My kitchen was decorated with cobwebs and spiders and black lights were on, and my laptop screen was filled with the smiling faces of our community members, each one broadcasting from their own festively decorated kitchen. There were members from Australia waving enthusiastically at their cameras, backgrounds adorned with dangling bats. There were members from the USA wearing magnificent witch's hats, already stirring something mysterious in the large mixing bowl. There were some from Canada carefully arranging ghost-shaped cookie cutters on the counter, a cheerful skeleton prop peering over shoulders. The energy was electric. Everyone was showing off their costumes, their decorations, and most importantly, the edibles they were planning to make that evening. Someone announced that she was making a witch's brew brownies with dark chocolate, espresso, and a sativa dominant infusion. Another was tackling a ginger snap cookie recipe, which they'd renamed Ginger Dead Men for the occasion. The chat was flying with recipes, tips, and plenty of laughter. And that's when I heard it. A quiet notification sound. Someone new had joined the waiting room. I glanced at the name. Shadow Weaver. Now we get new members joining our events all the time, so I didn't think much of it. I clicked to admit them to the call, and a new black square appeared on the screen. And the camera was off, and the microphone muted. And for a moment nothing happened. Then a message appeared in the chat, typed in an elegant, almost old-fashioned font. An honor to be here. The energy is potent tonight. Someone typed back a cheerful welcome, encouraging them to turn on their camera and join in the fun. But Shadow Weaver remained silent. Their square stubbornly black. A few seconds later, another message appeared. I've a recipe to share. For the occasion. They're called Ghostly Gummies. Well, that got everyone's attention. A new recipe is always exciting, especially one with such a perfectly spooky name. I encouraged Shadow Weaver to share the details, and what followed was unusual to say the least. The recipe they described was something out of a fairy tale. Moon ripened blackberries, a whisper of vanilla, a cup of spring water gathered under a full moon, and my personal favorite, a pinch of midnight air. Someone joked that she was fresh out of midnight air and asked if extra cinnamon would work. We all laughed, but Shadow Weaver seemed completely serious. They continued to post cryptic, poetic instructions in the chat, each one more mysterious than the last. Now I'm all for creativity in the kitchen, but I'm also practical. So I suggested we adapt the recipe to something we could actually make with ingredients from our pantries. Storebought blackberries instead of moon ripened ones, tap water instead of spring water collected under a full moon. And we'd skip the midnight air entirely, thank you very much. But here's the thing: Shadow Weaver kept chiming in with their strange advice, and somehow it added this wonderful theatrical layer to the whole experience. They told us to stir counterclockwise to undo the day's worries, to fold in the gelatin slowly, like a secret being whispered. And they insisted the infusion should be from a cultivar that encouraged perception, whatever that meant. We all decided to make the gummies together. We melted our gelatin, infused our oils, and mixed in the blackberry puree. The mixture turned this gorgeous deep purple color almost glowing under our kitchen lights. We poured it into ghost-shaped molds and popped them into our freezers to set. We waited. While we waited, we continued chatting, sharing stories about our favorite Halloween memories and the best edibles we'd ever made. Shadow Weaver remained quiet. Their black, square, a silent presence among our lively faces. It was a little eerie, I'll admit, but in a fun, Halloween-appropriate way. After about twenty minutes, the gummies were ready. I pulled mine out of the freezer, and they looked perfect, translucent, purple, and shimmering in the light. The others all showed off their batches too. On the count of three, we each popped a ghostly gummy into our mouths. The flavor was incredible, sweet and tart, and just a hint of vanilla and that familiar, earthy undertone of cannabis. And then something strange began to happen. Susie was the first to notice. She suddenly stopped mid-sentence and looked around her kitchen, her eyes widened. Wait, she said, It's all gone cold all of a sudden. Anyone else feel that? I hadn't noticed anything in my own kitchen. But then John chimed in. Yeah, I've got goosebumps. And do you hear that? Through my headphones I could hear it too. A faint soft whispering like the rustling of dry leaves. But it wasn't coming from the call. It sounded like it was in the room with us. That's when Shadow Weaver sent another message. The veil is thin on Halloween. The gummies don't create. They simply help you see what's always been there. A chill ran down my spine, but it was the good kind, the exhilarating Halloween night kind. And then Samantha gasped. Margaret, you're not going to believe this. Look at my webcam. I leaned closer to my screen, staring at Samantha's video feed, and there, floating just behind her shoulder, was a small shimmering apparition. It was translucent and glowed with a soft green light. It wasn't a terrifying spectre from a horror movie. It was shaped unmistakably like a cannabis leaf. Before I could even begin to process what was ha what I was seeing, Susie shrieked with laughter. I've got one too! A little ghost, a pot ghost. On her screen, another tiny glowing cannabis leaf spirit zipped past, giggling like the tinkling of tiny bells. It playfully nudged a measuring spoon on her counter, sending it clattering to the floor. John's camera suddenly showed three of them swirling around his kitchen like fireflies. One of them dove into his bag of flour and emerged covered in white powder, looking even more like a classic cartoon ghost. I sat there absolutely mesmerized. The others at the high table who hadn't made the gummies were frantically typing into the chat. Susie, Samantha, and John were narrating their experiences in real time, their voices filled with wonder and delight. The ghostly spirits grew bolder. They changed the color of John's Halloween lights from orange to green and back again. They danced in the steam rising from Samantha's kettle. They hid in the shadows under Susie's cabinets and peeked out from behind her spice rack. They weren't scary at all. They were playful, curious, and seemed to be made of pure, joyful energy. I couldn't see them myself since I was watching through a screen and hadn't eaten one of the gummies yet. But the three of them described every detail, and their shared experience was so vivid, so consistent that I knew something truly extraordinary was happening. I encouraged them to stay calm and enjoy the moment. This was what we always talked about in the club: cannabis opening up our creativity, our perception, helping us to see the world in new ways. Maybe Shadow Weaver had been right. Maybe the gummies didn't create the spirits, they just helped us see what has always been there, hiding in the corners, waiting for someone to notice. For nearly an hour, the three of them watched the tiny cannabis leaf ghosts flit around their kitchens. They described the spirits' movements, their personalities. One was shy, another mischievous. A third seemed fascinated by the light from the refrigerator. It was like watching children discover magic for the first time. And then, just as the peak of the edibles began to mellow, the spirits started to fade. One by one, they waved tiny translucent goodbyes and winked out of existence, leaving behind only the lingering scent of blackberry and a profound sense of wonder. The kitchen temperatures returned to normal. The whispers ceased. Susie, Samantha, and John looked at each other through their screens, their faces glowing with joy. John was the first to speak. That, he said, his voice filled with awe, was the best edible I've ever had. Susie nodded enthusiastically. We have to make those again next year. I wouldn't have believed it if you hadn't all seen it too. The rest of the high table was buzzing with excitement. Everyone wanted the recipe. Everyone wanted to try it. The chat was a flurry of questions and exclamations. I looked down at the chat to thank Shadow Weaver for sharing such an incredible recipe, but their black square was gone. They had left the call without a word, leaving behind only one final message. Happy Halloween, bite me family. Remember the best treats are the ones that open your eyes. Stay lifted. I sat back in my chair, staring at my screen, my mind racing. Who was Shadow Weaver? Where had they come from? And how had they known the recipe would create such an unforgettable experience? I'll probably never know the answers to these questions, but I do know this: that Halloween night reminded me why I started this show in this community in the first place. It's not just about the recipes or the chemistry or getting the dosage right. It's about the connection, the shared experiences, the magic that happens when we come together, even across thousands of miles, to explore the incredible plant and all the ways it can open our hearts, our minds. As I said goodbye and started shutting down the call, I noticed something on my own kitchen counter. One of the ghostly gummies I made was still sitting on a plate, glowing faintly in the dim light. I hadn't eaten it yet. I'd been too busy hosting the event. I picked it up, held it up to the light, and smiled. Then I popped it into my mouth. For a moment, nothing happened. And then out of the corner of my eye, I saw it. A tiny shimmering cannabis leaf shaped spirit hovering just above my spice rack. It looked at me, winked, and dissolved into a final sparkling puff of midnight air. Happy Halloween, everyone. Stay safe, stay curious, and stay high.