Ganja Granny’s Cookie Caper

Chapter One: “The Unfortunate Herb Swap”

Mary Nussbaum and the Great San Marcos Mix-Up

The Texas sun hung heavy over San Marcos, casting a golden haze on the clapboard houses and live oaks that lined Guadalupe Street. At the end of a cul-de-sac dotted with lawn gnomes and "Don’t Mess With Texas" signs sat a butter-yellow bungalow. Inside, 82-year-old Mary Nussbaum hummed a hymn from Sunday’s service while preheating her oven to 350°F.

Mary’s week followed a sacred rhythm: Mondays for Bible study, Wednesdays for dominoes at the San Marcos Senior Center, and Saturdays for selling her famous lavender shortbread cookies at the Hays County Farmers’ Market. Her recipe—a closely guarded secret involving “a whisper of vanilla” and lavender grown in her garden—had won three blue ribbons at the Texas State Fair. But today, disaster struck.

“Oh, sugar,” Mary muttered, squinting at the shriveled gray plant in her terracotta pot. Her lavender crop, victim to a heatwave and her overzealous pruning, was deader than an armadillo on I-35. Panic set in. The farmers’ market was tomorrow, and the First Baptist Church Ladies’ Auxiliary had already pre-ordered six dozen cookies for their annual quilt raffle.

Across the chain-link fence, her neighbor Chad “Chaz” Reynolds lounged on his balcony, strumming a ukulele and watering a suspiciously lush plant labeled BASIL. Chad, a Texas State University junior majoring in “Agricultural Studies” (read: hydroponics enthusiast), waved. “Need help, Ms. N?”

Five minutes later, Mary squinted at Chad’s “herbal mix,” a Ziploc bag of fragrant green leaves. “You’re sure this is… oregano?”

“Totally,” Chad said, coughing into his sleeve. “It’s, uh, a special Italian strain. Makes pizza awesome.”

Mary beamed. “Bless your heart! I’ll bring you a batch as thanks!”

By midnight, 200 cookies cooled on Mary’s countertops. She’d added an extra sprinkle of cinnamon, just in case. “Tastes a little… earthy,” she mused, nibbling a corner. Her hip didn’t ache for the first time in years. Must be the humidity, she thought, scribbling Zen Cookies??? in her recipe journal.

The next morning, the Hays County Farmers’ Market buzzed with college students, retirees, and tourists drifting over from the San Marcos River. Mary set up her booth beside a honey vendor and a man selling jerky made from “ethically sourced possum.”

“Try a sample, dear?” Mary offered a cookie to a passing yoga instructor in tie-dye leggings.

Two bites in, the woman’s eyes widened. “Whoa. Are these… vegan?”

“Butter’s from the H-E-B,” Mary said proudly.

By noon, a line snaked past the courthouse. A group of frat boys in “Bobcats for Life” tank tops declared the cookies “a spiritual experience.” A septuagenarian biker gang, the Silver Stallions, bought three dozen and began harmonizing with a street saxophonist. Even the Methodist church’s stoic organist giggled at a squirrel.

“Y’all are too kind!” Mary blushed, pocketing $427 in cash. “Must be that new TLC I added!”

That evening, Deputy Darnell Watkins, a third-generation Hays County cop with a weakness for sweets, bit into a confiscated cookie in the station break room. Twenty minutes later, he was serenading the fax machine with a rendition of Deep in the Heart of Texas that would’ve made Willie Nelson weep.

Sheriff Rosa Gutierrez peered over her coffee. “Darnell. Are you high?”

“No, ma’am,” he hiccuped. “Just… deeply moved by office supplies.”

Sheriff Gutierrez sighed, eyeing the empty cookie bag labeled MARY’S MAGIC. “Lord help us. We’ve got a grandma problem.

Chapter Two: “Texas Twinkle in Mary’s Eye (Or: How to Accidentally Host a Dance Party at a Bake-Off)”

The Invitation

Mary adjusted her cat-eye glasses as she read the embossed letter for the third time. “You’re cordially invited to the San Marcos Annual Bake-Off!” it declared, signed by Mayor Jim “Big Jim” Holloway himself. Her lavender cookies—now mysteriously rebranded as “Zen Cookies” by locals—had caught the town’s attention. “Well, butter my biscuit,” Mary murmured, already mentally testing a new recipe involving pecans.

Across the fence, Chad paced his balcony like a caged raccoon. “Ms. Mary, you sure about this?” he called out, eyeing the empty Ziploc bag in her trash. “Maybe try, uh, store-bought herbs this time?”

“Nonsense, Chadwick! Your oregano’s the secret sauce,” Mary said, waving a hand dismissively. “Besides, I promised the Rotary Club I’d bring extras for their silent auction.” Chad sank into a lawn chair, muttering prayers to a god he hadn’t acknowledged since his last chemistry midterm.

Bake-Off Bonanza

The San Marcos Civic Center buzzed with the clatter of mixing bowls and the saccharine scent of ambition. Mary set up her booth between Betty Lou’s “Five-Alarm Chili Fudge” and Hector’s Tamale Torpedo truck, where a surly man in a “Don’t Tread on Me” apron scowled at the crowd. A tiny chihuahua named Beans, sporting a tiny bandana, yapped at Mary’s ankles. “Aren’t you just a spicy little sopapilla?” she cooed, feeding him a cookie crumb.

By 10 a.m., the hall was packed. Yoga moms in Lululemon, college kids in Bobcats gear, and the Silver Stallions biker gang (now self-appointed cookie security) milled about. Sheriff Gutierrez lurked by the punch bowl, side-eyeing Mary’s booth while Deputy Darnell nibbled a “surveillance cookie.”

The Cookie Effect

The chaos began subtly.

First, the tamale vendor—Hector “El Jefe” Ramirez—abandoned his post to twerk vigorously to the civic center’s Muzak rendition of Yellow Rose of Texas. A group of septuagenarian line dancers mistook the fire extinguisher for a mic stand and belted out a pitchy Jolene. Meanwhile, Beans the chihuahua, now cross-eyed and blissed out, launched a one-dog raid on Betty Lou’s fudge display.

Mary, oblivious, handed samples to the judges: a retired Marine colonel, a food blogger named Zola who Instagrammed everything as “#CottageCore,” and a skeptical DEA agent named Riggs who’d driven up from Austin.

“Ma’am,” Agent Riggs said, squinting at her cookie, “you aware these might contain… unconventional ingredients?”

“Oh, I use real butter!” Mary beamed, adjusting her “Kiss the Cook” apron. Agent Riggs opened his mouth to retort but was distracted by her cross-stitched tote bag (World’s Okayest Gardener) and the sudden urge to call his mother.

Law Enforcement, Unraveled

Deputy Darnell, now giggling into his walkie-talkie, radioed Sheriff Gutierrez: “Code 4-20… I mean, Code 20-4! The, uh… situation is escalating!”

The sheriff arrived to find the bake-off transformed into a Woodstock cosplay. Zola the blogger was live-streaming the Silver Stallions’ interpretive dance to Achy Breaky Heart, while Colonel Briggs, the Marine judge, teared up over Mary’s cookie. “Ma’am,” he rasped, “this is the first time I’ve felt peace since Fallujah.”

The Confrontation

“Mary Nussbaum,” Sheriff Gutierrez said, steering her away from the crowd, “we need to talk about your cookies.”

Mary blinked. “Did someone report an allergy? I swear, I only used Chad’s oregano!

“Yes ma’am.” The sheriff pinched her nose. “That ‘oregano’ was cannabis. You’ve been dosing the whole town.”

Mary’s hand flew to her pearls. “Cannabis?! Like on Dateline?!” She gasped. “Am I… a narcotics queenpin?”

Before the sheriff could answer, Chad burst in, red-faced. “It’s my fault! I gave her the… the stuff!”

The crowd fell silent. Then, from the back, Hector the tamale vendor shouted, “Free Grandma Mary!” The chant spread like wildfire, backed by a mariachi band that had materialized from nowhere.

Resolution: Texas-Style

Sheriff Gutierrez sighed, watching Beans the chihuahua nap atop a pile of empty cookie bags. “Mary,” she said, “retire the recipe. And maybe… stick to mint next time.”

As the crowd cheered, Mary turned to Chad. “What’s cannabis?”

“It’s, uh… a herbal supplement,” he said weakly.

“Oh! Like echinacea!” Mary patted his cheek. “No wonder everyone’s so relaxed.

Chapter Three: “The Calm Before the Storm… or the Bull (Or: How to Tame a Rodeo with a Single Bundt Cake)”

A New Dawn, A New Bakery

Two weeks after the Great Bake-Off Debacle, “Mary’s Happy Accidents Bakery” opened its doors on San Marcos’s courthouse square. The ribbon-cutting ceremony drew a crowd—partly for the free samples, partly to see if the building would spontaneously combust. Mary’s menu now featured “CBD-infused” treats, a term she understood as “California Baking Delights” (Chad had given up correcting her). The Silver Stallions, now her self-appointed security detail, parked their Harleys out front like a geriatric biker buffet.

“Y’all behave,” Mary warned, pointing a spatula at the gang’s leader, Tiny (6’4”, 280 lbs., and terrified of caterpillars). “No freebies unless you’ve got a doctor’s note!”

Rodeo Ruckus on the Horizon

The Hays County Rodeo, a dusty spectacle of bravado and deep-fried butter, was the town’s biggest event. This year, the organizers made a fatal mistake: they asked Mary to cater the VIP booth. “Just keep it mild,” begged Sheriff Gutierrez, eyeballing Mary’s new “Calm Cake” (a lemon Bundt with “a sprinkle of chill”).

“Mild as milk!” Mary promised, though her definition of “mild” was… flexible.

Diablo’s Day Out

The rodeo’s star attraction was Diablo, a 2,000-pound bull with a résumé that included 12 broken ribs, three trampled clowns, and a restraining order from a rodeo announcer. His handler, Buck “The Bruiser” Malone, bragged, “This devil’s never been calm a day in his life!”

Famous last words.

The Cake Mix-Up

Mary arrived at the rodeo with 50 Calm Cakes… and one special cake laced with extra CBD, meant for Deputy Darnell’s anxiety-prone golden retriever. But in the chaos of the VIP tent—where Betty Lou was hawking chili fudge and Hector’s tamale truck blasted Selena—the cakes got swapped.

Diablo’s pre-rodeo snack? The dog’s cake.

Zen and the Art of Bull Taming

When Diablo thundered into the arena, the crowd roared. Buck waved his hat, yelling, “Y’all ready to see a demon dance?!”

But Diablo… paused. Sniffed the air. Then lay down in the dirt and rolled onto his back like a golden retriever.

“Is he… smiling?” a spectator whispered.

Mary, sipping sweet tea in the stands, nodded sagely. “Must’ve finally found Jesus.”

Law Enforcement (Mostly) Loses It

Sheriff Gutierrez stormed over, radio crackling. “Mary. Why is Diablo letting toddlers ride him like a pony?”

“Oh, that’s the Calm Cake!” Mary beamed. “It’s got California Baking Delights! Works wonders on my sciatica.”

Deputy Darnell, mid-bite into the actual dog cake, mumbled, “I’ve never felt so… at one with the universe,” before slow-dancing with a hay bale.

The Rodeo Rebrands

By sundown, Diablo had become a sensation. Kids braided flowers into his mane, influencers livestreamed his nap schedule (#MooDulu), and Buck sobbed into his trophy belt buckle: “He’s a therapy bull now?!”

Mary, meanwhile, sold out of Calm Cakes. Even the rodeo clown—a man named Earl who’d “seen some things”—bought two, muttering, “Gotta take the edge off them flashbacks.”

The Televised Temptation

As the crowd dispersed, a slick producer from Texas Today cornered Mary. “We want to feature Diablo and your bakery on our ‘Lone Star Legends’ segment!”

Chad, now Mary’s reluctant business partner, whispered, “Say no. Please.”

“Well, shoot,” Mary said, adjusting her rhinestone rodeo hat, “I’ve always wanted to be on TV!”

Chapter Four: “Live, Laugh, Loaf (Or: How to Silence a Storm (Chaser) with a Single Tea Cake)”

The Pre-Show Jitters

Mary adjusted her peacock-blue blazer—purchased from the San Marcos Walmart Clearance Rack of Destiny—and squinted at the Texas Today studio lights. “They’re brighter than the Alamo on the Fourth of July!” she whispered to Chad, who was sweating through his “Don’t Mess With My CBD” T-shirt.

“Remember,” Chad hissed, “don’t mention the cannabis. Just say ‘herbal supplements.’ Or ‘Texas sunshine.’ Or nothing!”

Mary patted his cheek. “Relax, hon! I’m just here to talk about my Texas Trauma Tamers tea cakes. They’re like Xanax, but with pecans!”

Chad slid to his knees in prayer. Behind them, the Silver Stallions lurked as “bodyguards,” their leather vests stuffed with backup cookies.

The Texas Today Circus

The studio buzzed with pre-show chaos: makeup artists powdered shiny noses, interns scrambled with coffee, and meteorologist Rex “The Tempest” Turner practiced his tornado alerts in the mirror. Rex, a man who reported drizzle like it was the apocalypse, was famous for his catchphrase: “Batten down the BBQ pits, folks—it’s gonna rain!”

Producer Deb, a woman with the energy of a caffeinated jackrabbit, thrust a tea cake into Rex’s hand. “Eat this on-air. Viewer engagement gimmick!”

Rex eyed the treat. “Is it laced with meth?”

“Better,” Deb winked. “Viral potential.”

Lights, Camera, Calm

Mary sat across from host Lulu Carmichael, whose smile could power a small town. “So, Mary,” Lulu began, “your ‘Texas Trauma Tamers’ are flying off the shelves! What’s in these little miracles?”

“Love, butter, and a dash of California sunshine!” Mary chirped.

Chad, off-camera, mouthed NOOOO as Rex bit into his tea cake mid-segment.

The Tempest… Subsides

Rex’s weather report began normally. “Y’all ready for a STORM?” he barked, jabbing at a radar map. But halfway through, his pupils dilated. He trailed off, staring at the green screen. “Whoa. The clouds… they’re dancing.”

The camera cut to Rex sitting cross-legged on the floor, narrating in a voice usually reserved for ASMR. “The front’s moving west… but gently, like a kitten wearing socks…”

Producer Deb waved frantically at the crew. “Cut to commercial! Now!” But the director, snacking on a “surplus” tea cake, was too busy sketching mandalas on his script.

Audience Ambushed

In the studio audience, chaos dissolved into communal zen:

A soccer mom texted her ex-husband, “Ur a good dad tbh 💫.”

A college frat bro hugged a rival UT fan, whispering, “We’re all just stardust, man.”

Sheriff Gutierrez, there to “monitor the situation,” accidentally joined a group meditation circle.

Even the stagehand operating the fog machine sighed, “Y’know… mist is underrated.”

Mary’s Moment

Unaware, Mary cheerfully demonstrated baking steps. “You just fold in the trauma tamer mix—it’s like thyme, but friendlier!”

Lulu, fighting a sudden urge to nap, slurred, “Mary… are these… drugs?”

“Oh, no!” Mary laughed. “They’re legal in California. And Colorado. And… Chad, sweetie, what’s that third state?”

Chad fainted.

The Aftermath

By 6 p.m., the segment trended on Twitter:

#RexTheRaptor (clips of him petting the green screen)

#GrandmaGate (conspiracy theories about Mary’s CIA ties)

#TexasTranquilized (a yoga studio’s sponsored ad)

Sheriff Gutierrez cornered Mary backstage. “We agreed: no more public dosing!”

Mary gasped. “Dosing? I just shared!” She offered the sheriff a tea cake. “For the road?”

Sheriff Gutierrez took three.

Chapter Fìve: “Peace, Love, and Pastry Problems (Or: How to Solve Feuds (and Emu Disputes) with a Muffin)”

The Last Strawberry Jam

San Marcos had endured many things: flash floods, Chad’s brief “edible glitter” phase, and the Great Whataburger Sauce Shortage of ’23. But the final test of the town’s patience arrived via a decades-old feud between ranchers Big Hank O’Leary and Cletus McCready. Their quarrel over a 10-foot strip of land—dubbed “The Cactus Corridor”—had escalated to sabotaging each other’s cattle auctions and dueling banjo battles at the H-E-B parking lot.

“This is worse than the time Diablo ate the mayor’s toupee,” Sheriff Gutierrez groaned, watching Hank and Cletus argue over a rusty tractor. “Mary. Fix this.”

Mary, now locally canonized as the “Patron Saint of Chill,” nodded. “I’ll bake ’em my Hill Country Harmony muffins! They’re like couples therapy… with cranberries!”

Muffins of Mass Sedation

Unbeknownst to Mary, her muffin batches had been mixed up. The ones intended for the ranchers contained her “Triple Tranq” CBD blend—meant for a yoga retreat’s sound bath—while the yoga group received blueberry.

“Extra love in these!” Mary trilled, delivering the muffins to the ranchers’ porches. Hank and Cletus, both suspicious, nibbled cautiously. Within minutes, they were arm-in-arm belting Islands in the Stream atop the disputed tractor.

Emu-pocalypse Now

Meanwhile, on the outskirts of town, a flock of emus—owned by eccentric ostrich farmer Bubba “Birdbrain” Jenkins—escaped their pen. Bubba’s attempt to recapture them using a taco truck horn only enraged the birds. They stampeded toward downtown, pecking mailboxes and terrorizing Tiny’s meditation podcast session.

“They’re like dinosaurs with a vendetta!” Deputy Darnell yelled, dodging a feathered missile.

The Great Emu Roundup

The emus stumbled upon Mary’s discarded muffin box outside the bakery. One nibble later, the birds morphed from feathered furies into docile loafers, lounging in the town square like oversized patio decor.

“Y’all just needed a snack!” Mary cooed, scattering crumbs as the town gathered to gawk. Hank and Cletus, still muffin-mellow, shepherded the emus into Bubba’s truck with surprising grace. “Teamwork makes the dream work!” Hank slurred, hugging Cletus.

Retirement? As If.

With peace restored, Sheriff Gutierrez cornered Mary. “You’re retiring that oven, right?”

“Oh, honey, I’m 83. Time to pass the whisk!” Mary announced at her surprise retirement party, handing Chad the bakery keys. The crowd gasped as he revealed a legally vetted menu: “Mary-Approved Mellow Bites™.” Even the health inspector cried, “I’ll allow it!”

Epilogue: “Legends, Loaves, and a Little Texas Magic”

Years later, San Marcos thrived:

The O’Learys and McCreadys merged ranches, opening a zen petting zoo (featuring Diablo and the emus).

Chad’s bakery expanded statewide, with a drive-thru staffed by the Silver Stallions.

Mary’s “retirement” involved mentoring rebellious bakers and starring in a Fixer Upper spinoff: Bake It Wiser.

At sunset, Mary rode Diablo into the golden plains, towing a cross-stitched banner: Don’t Mess With Serenity.

The Last Crumb:

Mary’s memoir, Baked in Blessings, topped the Texas bestseller list for 104 weeks. Its final line: Life’s a little sweeter when you stir in a happy accident or two.

*~ Fin ~*