The leaves were burning red and gold over Shelton, CT, when my immortal beloved and I rolled into Holy Ghost Park for the 2nd Annual BurnNLearn Harvest Fest. The air was that perfect October mix—crisp, sweet, and humming with a promise that something weird and wonderful was about to happen.
Music drifted across the park—Dead Show and Mystic Dead trading riffs that felt older than time. Tents lined the field like a bazaar for the beautifully baked. Art vendors, glass blowers, food, drinks, music, and weed. The smell of terpenes mingled with apple cider. Somewhere, someone was laughing too hard, and it was contagious.
We didn’t even make it ten steps before my beloved pointed toward the big “Free Dabs” sign and grinned. “Isn’t that your crew?”
Sure enough, it was Dabbin-Dad.com holding court—our proud little outpost of clouds and conversation. The setup gleamed like a spaceship: a row of Electric rigs, clean, efficient, no torches, no drama—just pure, plug-in precision. The table looked like it belonged in a sci-fi dispensary, and I was right at home.
I checked in with the team—everyone in good spirits, rigs humming like tuned engines. People lined up for their turn, each dab hitting smoother than the last, the crowd growing friendlier with every exhale. My immortal beloved hovered nearby, mocktail in hand, her smile reflecting the neon shimmer off a row of quartz bangers. So, I grabbed the mega-phone and blasted the siren and screamed “FREE DABS!!!”
There was laughter, music, and the low hum of community—the kind you don’t find at bars or clubs, only at gatherings like this, where everyone’s on the same wavelength of chill. There I was… floating on good vibes and Puffco vapor.
Then it hit me: We need pizza.
We sat down in the middle of everything, yet it seemed like we were the only ones there and the trees leaned in like old friends conspiring. In my hands rested a brick oven pizza, the crust was a blackened halo around a molten river of cheese, bubbling like the surface of some sacred volcano. Pepperoni curled into little fiery bowls, olive oil shimmering on the surface like liquid gold, and the scent…oh, the scent. It was a symphony, a primal siren song of garlic, tomato, and herbs, dragging me away from all rational thought.
We tore slices, the cheese stretching like it had its own gravitational pull, the crust crackling under my bite. Flavor exploded—a smoky char, the sweet tang of tomato, the delicate kiss of basil—and I could see my immortal beloved’s eyes widen in the same explosion of joy. We ate in silence for a while, the kind of silence that hums and makes the world shrink down to the size of this perfect circle of dough and fire.
Finally, she leaned back, licking the corner of her mouth, and said, “That…that was incredible. Honestly, one of the best things I’ve ever eaten.” She paused, then flinched as though suddenly startled and said “Wait a minute… Was there weed in that?”
See you next year!
Keep it weird
