Half Baked: How A Would-Be Cannabis Empire Went Up In Smoke
O utwardly, the bakery on the busiest street in Fountain Square looked like a bakery. The scene inside, though, told a different story. There were no glass cases brimming with flaky pastries. No gooey brownies or fussy cakes or confetti-capped cookies. No warm sugar smells. Instead, customers who met the “closed” sign on the door could cup their hands and peer past the threshold to see little more than two folding tables and a poster-sized reproduction of a magazine article featuring a woman with a big smile. But, like the bakery, the woman in the image was not exactly what or who she appeared to be.
Rebecca Raffle, a Los Angeles transplant, had posed for the photo some months earlier. The picture of her had originally appeared in this publication with a story about her new venture, Elevate Bakery & Barkery. In the article, readers learned that Elevate was one of the first of its kind in the country—a shop that featured artisanal baked goods spiked with hemp-derived cannabidiol (CBD) grown on her own farm. The story went on to explain that as a biotech specialist, “Raffle spent a year and a half working with local chemists to develop a proprietary blend of tasteless CBD powder that can be incorporated into any recipe.”
Before the story was published, a number of discrepancies turned up during the fact-checking process. But Raffle herself explained them away, and the story appeared in the November 2020 issue of Indianapolis Monthly with little fanfare. After copies appeared on newsstands, Raffle joined the magazine’s Monthly/Weekly podcast as a guest, where she once again praised the virtues of Elevate and shared her story, which got better the more she told it.
Elevate’s mission was personal to Raffle. She was both proprietor and patient. Years earlier, she had been diagnosed with lymphoma and found that CBD alleviated the side effects of chemotherapy. On her social media channels, she told friends and followers that she suffered from a host of other maladies as well: ADHD, dyslexia, a degenerative blood disorder, “really progressive” lupus, rheumatoid arthritis, and an unnamed condition that caused the bones in her legs and feet to break, forcing her to wear high-tops. Elevate wasn’t just a bakery, she said; it was part medical science lab, a marvel that delivered the healing power of the supplement via confectionery bliss. The spoonful of sugar helped the medicine go down—and made the pain go away for her target customers. She preached relief for busy moms, peace of mind for the anxious, and comfort for people who couldn’t afford their meds. “I have three old women, Barbara, Karen and Nancy. And I just drop them off CBD cookies, and they leave me cash or like an $8 check,” she says.
The bakery was just a small part of something much more ambitious. Raffle told others she was building an enterprise—a farm, dispensaries, tech firm—by and for a community with whom she shared an affinity. Jewish mothers. Gay women. Hemp enthusiasts. When Raffle moved here from the West Coast and left behind her consulting business, she started recruiting a team of women she met in Facebook groups, who in turn recruited their friends. Working with Raffle would have seemed like a can’t-miss opportunity. On paper, at least.
Raffle was raised in Calabasas, an enclave west of California’s San Fernando Valley favored by Drake, Justin Bieber, and the Kardashians. And like Kim, Khloe, and Kourtney, the 36-year-old entrepreneur gave the impression that she had found wild success at a very young age. Here’s how one of her online business profiles explains it: When she was just 8 years old, Raffle was tested by the world’s oldest and largest IQ society, Mensa International. In high school, she won a national scholarship competition for an essay on Ayn Rand and the themes of entrepreneurship and leadership in Rand’s novels. As an undergraduate at the University of San Francisco, she founded an “early Uber” called FSR Transportation and then left in 2007 for $1.3 million. She went on to work for a recycling startup called ECO2 Plastics in the Bay Area (and on a LinkedIn profile that has since been deleted, claimed to be its CFO). She left in 2010 for “an undisclosed amount.” After picking up a “post baccalaureate degree” in life sciences business and biotechnology from the University of California, Berkeley, she founded Raffle Consulting Group, which produced digital technology development and marketing campaigns for Fortune 500 companies, including Disney, NBCUniversal, Universal Pictures, and a variety of large cannabis clients.
In 2018, Raffle moved to Indiana with her wife, an ENT doctor, and her biggest idea to date: to revolutionize cannabis delivery. It was a killer concept for a killer app that she said she was in the process of developing, Grow Cart. Former business associates and employees say that Raffle told them she had vast experience in the cannabis industry and that Grow Cart was a blockbuster in the making with a valuation of over $1 billion, as startups like Facebook and Airbnb once had. In industry parlance, that made Grow Cart a “unicorn.”
And in a way, Raffle was, too. She was part of her own fairy tale. For example, that post-grad degree from Berkeley? The prestigious West Coast school told us that she attended a summer course there, but “we don’t have a record of that name matched with earning a degree.”
The embellishment didn’t begin or end with her education. But that wouldn’t begin to become clear until April 2021, when a tiny crack appeared in the facade, in an Instagram post from a local food-truck purveyor who claimed Raffle had done him wrong. The post went modestly viral, and a rush of commenters began to shed light on what initially played out like some kind of basic social media drama.
But the truth was bigger, messier.
RAFFLE HAD A solid pitch: make “cannabis delivery as easy as pizza delivery.”
Since a decade ago, when the first stylish black car liberated San Francisco’s passengers from the inconvenience of having to find a designated driver for the night, apps like Uber have dominated the startup space. Find the right unmet customer-service need, pair it with an easy-to-use interface, and you could, like Uber founder Travis Kalanick, go from the startup salt mines to being one of the tech world’s most recognizable billionaires overnight.
Raffle found her unmet need. Just as ride-hailing and delivery apps have created their own enormously lucrative sector of the economy over the past decade, so did the slow but steady legalization of marijuana across America. Grow Cart, as Raffle conceived it, would get customers their goodies by licensing a delivery app to dispensaries. But the company wouldn’t just provide the technology to take online orders; it would supply the labor as well, in the form of part-time “local moms,” as Raffle frequently characterized them, who were passionate about hooking people up with buzzed goods to brighten their day.
But Raffle’s ambitions went far beyond just delivery. In material presented to investors, she described the company as “a vertically integrated cannabis retail, delivery (B2C) and distribution (B2B) corporation.” Beyond merely helping the dispensaries, Grow Cart would become the dispensary. It would be the supplier, too: In the fall of 2019, she got the idea to incorporate a company in Michigan that she called Elevate Farms, with the intent of starting her own commercial growing operation—about as “vertically integrated” as a company can get.
Stormi Hunt was sold.
Hunt first became aware of Raffle when she was reading posts in a Facebook group called Queering Indy and noticed that a new girl in town was cooking up the opportunity of a lifetime. Hunt, who had recently started her own business as a virtual assistant, wanted in—or at least hoped to add Raffle to her growing list of clients. “I knew who my ideal customer was, and I thought that was Rebecca,” she says. “Because my ideal customers were women, queers, minorities, and alternative health and wellness.” But when they met in 2019, Raffle had a better idea for Hunt: join Grow Cart as the company’s director of operations. The offer came fast—too fast—and Hunt became skeptical: “She made a lot of big promises and a lot of large declarations.” To her, Raffle’s description of the company sounded more like multilevel marketing. “I was like, ‘Oh God, is she going to give me a box of CBD Avon and I’m going to have to go door to door?’”
After thinking it over for a few weeks, Hunt joined the team. But instead of CBD Avon, Raffle gave her reading material, “books on how to be more likable,” Hunt says. “Chatting with people briefly, figuring out something about their identity, and then mirroring it so that they would find her more likable—Rebecca called those her business superpowers.” Hunt understood finding common ground with prospective customers and partners was a normal part of doing business, but now fears the smarmy approach was something more. She said Raffle liked her Midwestern demeanor—“I’m hyper-friendly, super-outgoing, very sociable—I can talk to anyone”—and sent her to Michigan on a mission to find partners.
Michigan legalized marijuana for recreational use in 2018, and already a bumper crop of dispensaries and growing operations had popped up across the nation’s 10th-largest state. Of course, it shares a lengthy border with Indiana—the company’s home base, full of would-be cannabis consumers eager to jump the state line and procure what they can’t at home.
While finding a location for the dispensary was hard, drawing interest from investors wasn’t. Thanks to Raffle’s slick pitch deck, fundraising was booming. So, they decided to make the money work for them. In Hunt’s telling, the new plan would be to find an already-existing dispensary and either buy it out or have Raffle become a majority partner.
In time, they found the perfect guy.
“In this industry, you take people with a grain of salt,” says Chris Clabaugh, a self-described “independent consultant” in the cannabis world. “It’s difficult to find someone honest in this business.” But when Raffle approached him in the winter of 2019 with her spiel, she seemed, in his estimation, honest enough. Clabaugh was then the owner and proprietor of The Happiest Camper, a dispensary in Reading, Michigan, a sleepy town about 10 miles north of the Indiana state line. Her pitch was just what he needed after a messy split with The Happiest Camper’s original cofounders. She told him she’d already sold the Grow Cart app for millions of dollars, and they planned a partnership where they would open a string of dispensaries under the auspices of Elevate Farms along the state border.
Raffle collected at least $300,000 in investment money. In return, its investors were promised a can’t-miss opportunity—a founding stake in a company with a “minimum of $1,752,177 in income in Year 1” from its Reading location, and “the most passionate and experienced team for cannabis retail and delivery sales in the Midwest.”
That’s where the company found itself in January 2020, when Grow Cart addressed the planning commission in Coldwater, Michigan, near Reading, as the newest member of the Branch County business community. Dean Walrack, the city’s planning and zoning administrator, recalled the pitch as earnest, if a bit canned. “They were looking to hire local,” Walrack says. “They kept using the term ‘local moms,’ and that’s what kind of sticks out.”
But months passed, and Walrack never heard from Raffle. And after a certain point, neither did Clabaugh.
BEFORE RAFFLE WAS an aspiring Hoosier CBD mogul, she was many other things to many other people. But first and foremost, she was a Californian.
One of her grandmothers was an influential Jewish activist and philanthropist in the San Fernando Valley. Raffle’s father, David Raffle, is a licensed clinical psychologist and neuropsychologist who founded the Raffle Brain Institute (now based in Carmel), which offers state-of-the-art neuropsychological and psychological assessments. Rebecca Raffle was now following in their footsteps, in a family informed across generations by California’s blue-sky aspirational spirit.
Raffle’s first major foray into sole entrepreneurship was in launching her consulting group. Its Instagram biography called it a global digital marketing agency specializing in services like luxury brand development and SEO, otherwise known as search engine optimization, the art of manipulating algorithms in order to draw traffic to a website.
It was the very thing Vanessa Holden was looking for.
In 2013, Holden was a student at Pasadena City College, hoping to break into the lucrative marketing industry. She went on Yelp, found contact information for marketing firms in Los Angeles, and blanketed them with cover letters explaining that she was desperate for experience in the industry. She got one offer back: Raffle’s.
Three days a week for three months, Holden took the bus to Raffle’s downtown loft—despite the fact that Raffle had advertised to the contrary, there wasn’t an actual office in L.A., or one at all in San Francisco or Hong Kong—to learn how to become an SEO master. She cranked out social media content and blog posts for Raffle Consulting’s clients, at that point mostly plastic surgeons seeking to grow their digital footprint. When the three months were up, Holden joined the team full time as Raffle’s executive assistant. But the more involved Holden became with the company, the more she started to notice corner-cutting that didn’t live up to the hype endemic to a self-promotional business, in a self-promotional industry, in the most self-promotional city in America. “It seemed like a lot of her [website] designs, she kind of copied from other designs,” Holden says. “Some clients ended up calling us on it.”
Equally as slippery was how the team dealt with the raw numbers themselves, allegedly: Holden says Raffle filled reports for clients with random data instead of sourcing it from their websites’ analytics, and tried to obscure the skimping with sometimes nonsensical jargon. (Raffle denies this.) Holden says that in order to impress one potential customer, Raffle recruited actors to come in and play Raffle Consulting employees in exchange for professional headshots. (Raffle says she hired the actors for a promotional video.) And things got downright weird when Raffle started introducing Holden as a graduate of USC—just as Raffle had fudged her own credentials.
Eventually, Holden saw enough. When she told Raffle that she was going off on her own, she said Raffle begged her to stay. When that didn’t work, Holden says Raffle threatened to blackball her from the industry. (Raffle denies this, too. “Never, ever.”) Holden didn’t think anyone would believe her over someone as apparently as accomplished as Raffle—“My last job was at McDonald’s”—and so she left in 2015 for Las Vegas to start her own company, TurnerRound Logistics.
Raffle, too, would decamp from California within just a few years. She and her wife had a child together, and in 2018 they moved back to her wife’s native Indiana to raise the child closer to family. Raffle’s parents came in tow, as well, with her father setting up his psychological practice on the north side, just off Keystone Parkway.
Whatever struggles Raffle’s consulting operation might have endured, self-inflicted or not, they didn’t dampen her entrepreneurial spirit. Indiana might not be California, but it has its own fledgling startup and venture capital scene.
Plus, even if marijuana wasn’t quite legal in Indiana yet, signs were promising. The federal 2018 Farm Bill legalized, albeit with a series of arduous restrictions, the cultivation of hemp and hemp-based products across the United States, provided their THC content not exceed 0.3 percent. That same year, Gov. Eric Holcomb signed a bill that enabled Hoosiers to buy, sell, and possess CBD products below the same level of THC content. Hemp farms and CBD shops have flourished across the state over the past three years, with roughly 80 commercial growers and handlers licensed by the state as of press time.
Starting Grow Cart, then, wasn’t just an ambitious swing at the market north of the border, but somewhat of a bet on the future.
The problem was, the wheels were already starting to fall off of the Cart.
IN JANUARY 2020, as Donald Trump’s attorneys wrapped up their opening arguments at his first impeachment trial, Raffle texted Stormi Hunt with an ominous directive to prepare to uproot Grow Cart before it had even begun to gain traction. “We need to schedule a contingency plan for if Trump gets impeached,” wrote Raffle. Her reasoning was simple: She feared a Mike Pence presidency would make the United States an uninhabitable place for members of the LGBTQ community. “Pence is a sick fuck,” she texted.
“Plan B,” as Raffle outlined it, was to install an acting CEO of Grow Cart, reroute her and Hunt’s salaries to new accounts, and run the organization overseas. She discussed leaving home in Indianapolis with her wife and child, perhaps to a country with lax immigration laws “like New Zealand,” and set up shop elsewhere. “We just need to start getting things ready to prepare,” Raffle wrote, “because I am literally stopping at your house (with gold in my underwear) on the way to the airport.”
Hunt, who also has a wife, began a response with a heart emoji, then continued: “love you girl. Thank you for making us family and always having our back. You are the realest.” But, after the initial excitement died down, Hunt found the episode quite odd—even frustrating.
Though Hunt had moved to Indianapolis to work for a tech company, she found that Raffle was constantly changing the business’s objectives and mission, sometimes radically.
When the Pence presidency didn’t materialize, for example, Raffle moved her attention to what Hunt termed “Plan G,” running the bakery. “The pace and direction of everything changed so rapidly,” Hunt says. “One day we were a tech company. Then we were opening dispensaries. Then a bakery and an event center, and all of a sudden we didn’t have money for opening dispensaries.” Hunt says Raffle’s new concept was to create CBD confections with an eye toward landing shelf space in a big-box store. But the goal was unrealistic given that she was in the midst of a dispute with a pair of artisan bakers that she had hired, Stacy and Jessi Franco of 42 Bakery.
Toward the end of 2019, Raffle’s relationship with the Francos had begun to sour over an ownership dispute. After spending their savings and time to fast-track opening a commercial bakery space in Irvington, the Francos broke away from Raffle on recommendation from their attorney, after he reviewed a partnership agreement. “We sent the papers to our attorney, and within an hour he called back and was like, ‘Please tell me you didn’t sign anything,’” says Stacy Franco. “He told us we would have signed everything away, that Rebecca would own 42 Bakery, our name, our recipes—everything.”
Raffle disagrees with Franco’s version of events and says she parted ways with the couple because “they didn’t know how to run a bakery.”
Meanwhile, running Elevate’s commercial kitchen and retail operation became somewhat of an all-hands-on-deck endeavor, drawing resources away from the tech and dispensary components of Grow Cart. But eventually, former employees began to question the existence of those very resources.
Before the country was in the grips of a pandemic, Raffle hired an executive assistant, Kelsey Collins. Collins says one of her first projects was to enter the names of dispensaries in states where recreational and medicinal marijuana was legal into Grow Cart’s customer relationship management system. Collins says Raffle directed her to catalog the entries to show that those dispensaries were actual Grow Cart customers instead of prospective buyers of the company’s app. “She was sending this information to investors to make it appear as though this company is much farther along than it is, and that people have already invested hundreds of thousands of dollars into the app.”
Raffle says that Collins’s description “isn’t accurate at all.” She says she directed Collins to enter companies into the system that had expressed an interest in Grow Cart’s technology, nothing more. Moreover, Raffle claims there’s a coordinated effort to disparage her, and is considering filing a defamation suit against some of her former employees, all of whom she required to sign nondisclosure agreements.
Collins, who says she was reassigned when she brought her concerns to Raffle and was eventually furloughed, entered hundreds of dispensaries into the system. But, it appeared to her, only one had paid to use the app—Chris Clabaugh from The Happiest Camper in Michigan.
Over time, though, Clabaugh says he became disillusioned with Raffle, deeming her “pushy and sketchy to the point where I didn’t want to go forward with her.” They lost touch and, according to Clabaugh, their last contact was when Raffle stiffed him on shipping fees for a piece of equipment mistakenly sent to his dispensary on her behalf.
But by then, Raffle had bigger problems. Namely, that there wasn’t actually a working app at all.
Sometime after coming up with the concept for Grow Cart in 2019, Raffle struck up a friendship with an entrepreneur based in Columbus, Ohio, who, like her, had a background in tech and transportation. “Looks like we are going to get the 2.5M for the farm as easy as [the dispensary in] Coldwater,” Raffle texted Hunt in November 2019. “Just spoke with an investor with $, rich friends and $6M in transport/delivery app technology. Things are falling into place.” Raffle closed the text with a “praise hands” emoji.
She was talking about Ryan McManus, the founder of SHARE Mobility, a firm that helped “companies and cities launch shared transportation programs.” Grow Cart employees say that Raffle consulted with McManus on a regular basis, particularly on her proposed cannabis delivery app. One former employee described the relationship as cagey; neither quite trusted the other, and both looked to have ulterior motives. From that former employee’s perspective, McManus seemed to want a toehold in the cannabis industry while Raffle was maneuvering to see the algorithm that powered the SHARE Mobility software. But there was a surprise when members of SHARE Mobility put on a software demonstration for the Grow Cart team. “They couldn’t get it to work,” the former Grow Cart employee says. “It was embarrassing. Then, once they did, it was nothing special. Basically, it was Waze,” the driving directions app.
Still, the courtship went on for several months. Eventually, Raffle even drew up a contract for McManus’s wife, Hoa, to become a wholesaler for a venture in development called Elevate Columbus. While the business never got off the ground, according to company documents, at some point McManus became a Grow Cart board member, along with one of his employees, Aaron Shocket. But, when we contacted McManus via email, he said neither he nor Shocket was a board member. “I do not want to be included in the article since I have nothing good to say,” McManus wrote. “I am not, nor have I ever been a board member.” He did acknowledge that he had been an “early advisor” to Grow Cart but parted ways, cryptically adding that there exists “a thin line between lying and vision.” McManus quickly followed up that email with another. “If you have not already, I would greatly appreciate [it] if you did not contact Aaron Shocket. He met [Raffle] once and should’ve never been on a[n investor] deck. He works for me now and I don’t want issues.”
That wasn’t the only inaccuracy on investor materials. One flowchart showed a man named John Weingardt as Grow Cart’s chief financial officer. Yet when we emailed Weingardt, a city councilor in Fishers, he, too, said he was unaware his name was being used. Instead, he had once done some personal accounting work for Raffle. “I am her outside CPA and not her CFO so don’t know too much about it,” Weingardt wrote in an email. “Not involved at all and not the CFO. That is not accurate.”
On March 3, 2020, Raffle emailed a cheery update to investors. The store in Coldwater, Michigan, was up and running, she told them, and a profit-and-loss statement was forthcoming. But little in the email was true—for one, Raffle had abandoned the deal with Clabaugh in Coldwater. Eight days later, the World Health Organization declared COVID-19 a pandemic. Stay-at-home orders followed, travel was restricted, and borders closed.
No one—not even Rebecca Raffle with figurative gold concealed in her underwear—was leaving the country for a very long time.
TOWARD THE END of March 2020, a small group of Grow Cart/Elevate employees started a text thread that quickly went from bitch session to rebellion. Layoffs were coming, but some staffers had already converted from full-time employment to contract work.
Regardless of their job status, they had lost confidence in Raffle and planned for ways to make the company a success in spite of its founder. “To be completely forthright,” wrote one, “no one sees this layoff as a break and no one wants to work for RR.”
The people on the text chain appeared keenly aware that a pandemic could be a boon for a delivery company, especially with shelter-in-place orders looming. But they were pinning their hopes for the future of Grow Cart on a set of faulty premises.
There was no delivery app in the offing. Grow Cart’s seed-to-sale operation, Elevate Farms, had never been much more than a marketing gimmick—Raffle eventually told us that she was “sharecropping” on the land of a licensed Indiana grower who has since left the hemp business. There wasn’t even an actual farm in Michigan. What remained was a CBD bakery that generated a small amount of money—certainly not enough to support a half dozen or so employees in the short term. And even that was in jeopardy.
Kiki Dennison was employed at Elevate for just a short period—January 27 to April 1—but it was long on drama. “It was possibly one of the biggest train wrecks I’ve ever seen,” says Dennison, who worked on creating a brand identity for Elevate after doing some pro bono work on Grow Cart the previous fall for Stormi Hunt (a friend since childhood). “The day-to-day office structure involved a small team of women who were subject to Rebecca coming into the office with large amounts of marijuana on her at all times. She would openly smoke marijuana in the office in front of us and often invite people to join her. No one ever did when I was in the office, and all of us kind of collectively viewed it as a very unprofessional work environment. So yeah, I started trying to work from home as much as possible because I wanted to separate myself from her and that.” Multiple former employees confirmed this account, saying Raffle often flaunted plastic gallon bags that appeared to be filled with cannabis. One complained that she could smell the Irvington kitchen from across the street.
Once, Dennison overheard Raffle and another employee discussing a “hot hemp” problem. The product—which was later rebranded as “tea” when the state outlawed smokable hemp—was testing well above the federal limit for THC, making it marijuana. But Dennison and other former employees say that state lab results were falsified to show an acceptable level of THC. Several people familiar with Raffle’s operation say this wasn’t an isolated event; the grower delivered “hot hemp” in 20-gallon totes. Some say another man would bring Raffle product in a black duffel bag.
Dennison says she confronted her employer, but to no avail. “I said that we had an obligation to our customers,” says Dennison. “I asked, ‘What about customers who were being drug tested?’” One employee told us a story about an Elevate customer who failed a court-mandated drug test for a custody hearing. Dennison says that Raffle explained to her that a discrepancy in THC testing was normal—“I was told there was a range of error”—and that the company was within its rights to modify the results in Photoshop.
Raffle says everything that she sold was perfectly legal, no one ever came to her with concerns, and that it would have been impossible for anyone to purchase hot hemp or marijuana at any of her establishments. “That is a complete fabrication,” she says. “I’ve never altered any lab documents. I wouldn’t even really know how to do that. And quite frankly, I’m not going to jail for hemp—it’s not worth it to me.”
One member of the Grow Cart team is facing that very prospect, however. In August 2020, Brittany Dufinetz, Grow Cart’s second-biggest shareholder and one of the corporation’s directors, was charged with possession of marijuana and dealing in marijuana weighing between 30 grams and 10 pounds, a felony. Then, in December 2020, Dufinetz was arrested again in Hamilton County for a separate offense and charged with possession of a controlled substance; possession of marijuana; dealing in a Schedule I controlled substance with weight at least 28 grams; and dealing in marijuana weighing between 30 grams and 10 pounds. The last two charges are felonies.
Dufinetz did not respond to an email seeking comment for this story. Both of her jury trials begin next month.
It does appear, however, that customers could acquire something stronger than CBD at Elevate—whether they meant to or not. Raffle provided us with jars of Elevate “tea” on two separate occasions, which we eventually took to a state-certified lab in Indiana for testing. But when the lab learned of our intentions, an employee there told us that the lab didn’t want to take part in anything that might cast the industry in a negative light. However, a similar facility in Cincinnati accepted and analyzed the samples, both of which tested twice the legal limit for THC.
At the very least, it seems Elevate’s products were marketed to customers with a wink and a nod. On an Instagram post to promote CBD gummy bears, someone with access to the Elevate account wrote: “NOTE: if any of my products do not ‘hit’ like you need them to, or you need them stronger, please DM me and let me know. I take knowing every Client’s personal dosage and needs very seriously.”
In April, Kelsey Collins, who was eventually furloughed after raising concerns about the company’s business practices, made a startling discovery: The state halted her unemployment benefits because she says Raffle provided faulty records. Collins made an appeal to the state and eventually obtained a default judgment. Collins and others also had trouble filing taxes because they never received W-2s from Grow Cart or Elevate Farms. Raffle’s companies had allegedly been collecting payroll taxes but apparently someone failed to remit the money to the state.
Raffle says a local company is to blame for the payroll and tax issues. “I won’t say who,” she told us. “My lawyer says if I do, I’ll get sued.”
To get some clarity, we spoke to an expert who explained that payroll companies won’t remit payroll taxes to the state or federal government if a client doesn’t have enough funds in its account. Instead, payroll companies will alert clients when an account becomes delinquent. Eventually, if an issue isn’t resolved, bad accounts are closed or locked. Regardless, it’s an employer’s legal obligation to withhold and remit employee wages to the proper tax authorities.
Whatever happened to employee withholdings at Grow Cart and Elevate Farms, the episode has served as an ongoing reminder to former associates of how quickly events spiraled out of control.
Hunt, who was ultimately fired by Raffle, says that, in the beginning, Grow Cart “was very much centered around creating a sense of community. We worked together. We loved each other. There was bonding, we shared stories, and we worked so hard—there were late hours. Now, of course, there’s a trauma bond just from all the craziness that we went through, and the sense that our community was absolutely exploited in the worst possible way.”
Simmer weed in oil for 2 hours on low heat (below 150 degrees).
Allow to cool for 30 minutes.
Strain through fine-mesh sieve.
To prepare the fish:
5 Long Island bluefish fillets
3 Tbsp. kosher salt
1 Tbsp. crushed fennel seed
2 Tbsp. Sour Diesel kief
2 Tbsp. Meyer lemon zest
2 Tbsp. weed oil
1/2 gram nugget Sour Diesel
2 tsp. small hickory chips
Remove any remaining scales and bones from the fillets, but keep skin on. On the flesh side, season the fish with salt, crushed fennel, Sour Diesel kief, Meyer lemon zest, and weed oil.
Allow fish to absorb the THC and flavors—preferably while covered and refrigerated overnight. When ready, remove fish from cold and let it come to room temperature.
Place the fish fillets on a cooling rack inside of a deep pan and then wrap the pan completely in plastic wrap. Poke one hole on each side. The first hole allows the vapor and the smoke to enter, and the second allows the normal air to be pushed out.
Fill a vaporizer bag with Sour Diesel vapor and then pump it into the chamber via the entrance hole. Once it’s full, quickly seal both holes with small pieces of plastic wrap and allow the vapor to sink in for 30 minutes. Repeat process with a second 30-minute batch of vaporized weed.
After the vaporizing sessions, blend in the hickory smoke, using the Smoking Gun. Allow to set in for 30 minutes.
To prepare the weed-yogurt sauce:
3 kumquats, diced
1 shallot, diced
Juice of 1 Meyer lemon
1/2 cup crème fraîche
3 Tbsp. weed oil
Combine first 3 ingredients and allow to macerate for 15 minutes.
Stir in the next three and salt to taste. Keep chilled.
To prepare the greens:
Five awesome varieties of greens from the garden at Roberta’s or from home garden. (Preferably one of the leaves is a marijuana leaf. I used arugula, red mustard, spotted basil, baby kale, and chrysanthemum.)
5 blood oranges, peeled and sliced into rounds
- Mix the leaves in a bowl with a squeeze of lemon, a drizzle of weed oil, and a pinch of salt.
To prepare the weed butter:
1.5 grams Chocolope weed—chopped, broken, or ground
Pour 1 inch of water into a pot, add the butter, and allow to melt. (The butter fat will rise to top, the water from the butter will sink, and the excess water will act as a diffuser and keep the butter from browning.)
Add the weed and allow to simmer, never boil, for 2 to 5 hours.
Completely cool in the fridge. The butter will solidify on top. The water will separate completely on the bottom. Remove the weed-butter cap and either rewarm and strain out the weed solids, then refrigerate again—or, if desired, use with the ground weed inside.
And beware! The THC in the butter can seep into your skin. Don’t come into too much bodily contact with the product unless you’re ready to get fucked-up.
To prepare the croutons:
1 1/2 Tbsp. Sour Diesel kief
1 loaf Roberta’s-made pumpernickel bread cut into 50 half-inch cubes
1 1/2 cups weed butter
Combine the kief and salt. Mix well.
Toast the cubed bread at 350 degrees for 10 minutes, then set aside.
Melt the weed butter slowly in a wide pot until it begins to smell nutty.
Add the cubes. Toss them until they absorb the all the butter.
Transfer them to a separate bowl. Toss with kief-salt mixture.
To assemble the dish:
Vegetable or grapeseed oil for searing
Remove the fish from its smoky chamber.
Place 2 cast-iron pans over medium-high heat. Add a bit of the vegetable or grapeseed oil.
Place the fish in the pans, skin side down. Allow the skin to crisp before flipping.
Arrange the plates and distribute the yogurt sauce among them, smoothing it out like a nice landing pad for the salad and fish.
Layer the salad over the yogurt and tuck in the blood-orange slices and the croutons.
Place the fish over the salad and serve immediately.
California Painkiller and Planet Caravan Cocktails
_By Bar Manager Mike Stankovich _
To prepare the concentrated weed cream:
3 grams Northern Lights weed
5 oz. heavy cream
Combine weed and heavy cream in a non-reactive saucepan.
Cook for 1 hour at a barely visible simmer. Do not let it boil.
Let cool for 1 hour before straining out the weed. You should be left with about 3 oz. of liquid.
To prepare the housemade Painkiller mix:
2 fresh pineapples
3 oz. concentrated weed cream
5 oz. coconut milk
6 oz. sweetened condensed milk
12 oz. fresh-squeezed orange juice
Peel and core two pineapples. Rough chop the flesh and puree in a blender.
Combine weed cream, coconut milk, and condensed milk in a large container or pitcher with leak-proof lid.
Add the orange juice and 14 oz. of the pineapple puree. Cover and shake vigorously.
Makes enough mix for about 20 Painkillers
To prepare the Painkiller:
2 oz. housemade Painkiller mix
2 oz. Appleton Estate Jamaica rum
Optional garnishes: mint leaves, edible flowers, cherries, and/or paper parasols
Combine the Painkiller mix and the rum in a cocktail shaker with ice. Shake well and strain over the crushed ice.
Garnish. Make it look pretty.
To prepare the infused gin:
4 oz. Hash Plant weed
5 oz. Earl Grey tea leaves
1-liter bottle Beefeater gin
Combine the weed and the tea in the gin.
Allow to infuse for 2 to 3 days, then strain out the tea and weed.
To prepare the Planet Caravan:
1 oz. infused gin
1 oz. plain Beefeater Gin
1 oz. fresh lemon juice
1/2 oz. simple syrup
Dashes of grapefruit bitters
In a cocktail shaker without ice, dry-shake the egg white vigorously. (For best results, detach the spring from a cocktail strainer and drop it into the egg white before shaking. This creates a frothy foam.)
Add the infused gin, the plain gin, the lemon juice, the simple syrup, and the grapefruit bitters.
Add ice, shake well, and strain into a chilled coupe glass.
_By Chef Anthony Falco _
The dough recipe makes enough for two twelve-inch pizzas: the Marijuananara Margherita and Pot Pesto Lupo
To prepare the dough:
300 grams Antimo Caputo 00 Pizzeria flour
8 grams fine sea salt
4 grams baker’s yeast or 2 grams active dry yeast
10 grams weed oil (see recipe above)
200 grams water
Thoroughly mix the flour and salt in a bowl.
Thoroughly mix the yeast, weed oil, and lukewarm water in a separate, large mixing bowl.
Add the flour-salt mixture to the yeast-oil-water mixture and knead until very thoroughly combined (about 3 minutes).
Let that rest for 15 minutes, then knead mixture 3 more minutes.
Cut mixture into 240-gram pieces and form into 2 balls.
Let the dough balls rise on a plate for 3 to 4 hours at 70 degrees or for 8 to 24 hours in the refrigerator. For the 70-degree method, cover the dough with a dampened cloth so that it doesn’t form a skin; for the refrigerator method, cover the dough with plastic wrap. If you use the refrigerator method, remove the dough balls 30 to 45 minutes before baking.
Remove dough from the plate and sprinkle generously with flour; dimple the center of the ball. Pass back and forth between your hands to let gravity stretch out the dough. Once it reaches about 12 inches, you are ready to add the toppings.
To prepare the marijuananara sauce:
1 28-oz. can San Marzano whole peeled tomatoes
4 oz. weed oil (see recipe above)
Blend tomatoes and oil thoroughly with immersion blender or food mill.
To prepare the Marijuananara Margherita pizza:
2 pinches “oregano” (equal-parts mixture of Hash Plant kief and oregano)
Small block of Grana Padano
20 grams buffalo mozzarella or fresh whole-milk mozzarella
1 1/2 oz. marijuananara sauce
2 Tbsp. olive oil
1 Tbsp. toasted hemp seeds
Preheat a pizza stone in a 500-degree oven for 1 hour.
Spread the marijuananara sauce on the pizza dough.
Grate the Grana Padano over the sauce.
Top with the mozzarella.
Sprinkle the “oregano” over the cheese.
Using a pastry brush, spread the olive oil around the crust.
Scatter the hemp seeds over the oiled crust.
Using a pizza peel, slide the pizza directly onto the stone and bake until the crust is blistered and brown and the cheese is bubbly (4 to 9 minutes).
To prepare the pot pesto:
2 grams Purple Kush weed
1/4 cup pine nuts
1/4 cup toasted hemp seeds
1/4 cup weed olive oil
Mix the ingredients in a food processor or high-powered blender.
To prepare the Pot Pesto Lupo pizza:
2 oz. prosciutto cotto
2 Tbsp. olive oil
1 Tbsp. toasted hemp seeds
Preheat a pizza stone in a 500-degree oven for 1 hour.
Spread the pesto on pizza dough.
Layer the prosciutto cotto and ricotta on top.
Using a brush, spread the olive oil around the crust.
Scatter the hemp seeds over the oiled crust.
Using a pizza peel, slide the pizza directly onto the stone and bake until the crust is blistered and brown and the cheese is bubbly (4 to 9 minutes).
_By Pastry Chef Katy Peetz _
High-powered blender (such as a Vitamix)
Hand blender or immersion blender
Silicone baking sheets
Ice cream machine
Baking sheets with 1/2-inch-tall sides
Green juice granita
On cooking with weed&
I don’t smoke or cook with weed on a regular basis. However, through research and talking to some very qualified cooks who have made weed treats, I learned quite a lot. I loved cooking with such a different herb. I approached this project with a culinary mind as opposed to a stoner mind. Marijuana has such a deep, sweet, earthy flavor. And since a lot of my desserts use savory, earthy flavors anyway, this was right up my alley—only with THC!
THC is fat-soluble, so I infused it into butter, cream, and oil and then used these weed-infused ingredients in my recipes. You can make these dishes as weak or as strong as you like. Taking into account that these desserts were being served at the end of a long weed dinner, I went light on the weed.
240 grams all-purpose flour
30 grams hemp flour
15 grams cornstarch
8 grams baking powder
250 grams parsley leaves with a little stem attached
85 grams weed oil
85 grams good olive oil (I use Pianogrillo)
330 grams sugar
250 grams eggs at room temperature (4 large or 5 small)
Mix flours, cornstarch, salt, and baking powder together in a bowl. Set aside.
Make the parsley-oil mixture: Put a third of the parsley in a strong blender, such as a Vitamix. Start on low speed and use the Vitamix tamper stick to help crush the parsley while the blade is spinning. Increase the speed to high during this process. Keep adding handfuls of parsley until it is all in the blender.
In a slow, steady stream, add the weed oil. Mix on low-medium until combined. Slowly add the olive oil. Don’t blend too high or too long or the parsley will turn to mush and an ugly green color will appear. Transfer into a bowl; scrape the sides of the blender very well to get all of it out! Set the mixture in the refrigerator until ready to use.
In a mir, whip the eggs with a paddle attachment for 30 seconds. Add the sugar and whip on high for about 5 minutes or until the mixture is super thick, creamy, and very pale yellow.
Turn mir speed down to low and add the parsley-oil mixture.
Add the dry flour mix with the machine still running and let it mix until just combined. Don’t overmix.
Pour the batter into a container and refrigerate, covered, for 6 to 24 hours. The chlorophyll releases during this time, and your cake will turn out greener than if you’d baked it right away.
Oil an 18-by-13-inch metal baking pan with 1/2-inch sides. Line with oiled parchment paper. Pour in the batter and even out the top with a spatula.
Bake at 345 degrees for 6 to 10 minutes, rotating the cake midway through the baking time.
Yields 25 portions of cake
Green strawberries are unripe strawberries. Their acidity and tartness, along with the rhubarb, balance out the fat and sweetness of the creamy base.
To prepare the weed cream:
400 grams heavy cream
5 grams marijuana, broken up
Combine the heavy cream with the marijuana in a large ziplock bag.
Cook in a water bath for 5 to 7 hours at a temperature below simmering.
Pour the infused cream into a mixing bowl and mix with a hand blender, but stop when soft peaks start to form. Use right away or chill until ready to use.
To prepare the fruit purees:
400 grams fresh strawberries
800 grams fresh rhubarb
200 grams sugar
Juice from one lemon
Toss the fruit, sugar, salt and lemon juice together in a large bowl.
Cover and let sit for 24 hours; strain the fruit and reserve the liquid.
Transfer the sweet macerated liquid into a pot and reduce over low heat until it is a syrup, about 10 minutes. Let cool to room temperature.
Meanwhile, cook the macerated fruit on medium heat until most of the liquid has evaporated, which will take anywhere from 20 to 60 minutes. Stir frequently to prevent burning. Allow the fruit to cool.
In a blender, puree the thickend fruit, thinning it out with the syrup. Puree very well until creamy and no fruit chunks remain.
To prepare the gelato:
405 grams weed cream
100 grams sugar
100 grams glucose powder
75 grams dry milk powder
6 grams xanthan gum
300 grams room temperature eggs (5 eggs)
200 grams green strawberry puree
400 grams rhubarb puree
In a saucepan, heat the weed cream and milk to a simmer. Turn off the heat. Add the rest of the ingredients except for the fruit purees and eggs.
In a separate bowl,** **whisk the eggs and temper with a small amount of the hot cream mixture; then add it back to the saucepan. Turn the heat back on low and slowly bring the mixture up to 170 degrees, stirring the bottom of the pot often with a rubber spatula. Remove from heat.
Immersion-blend the mixture for 2 minutes, then strain through a fine sieve into a container over an ice bath.
Mix in the fruit purees. Mix with a hand blender again.
Chill to 33 degrees before pouring into the ice cream machine. ** **
Spin the base according to your ice cream machine.
Yields 3 quarts of gelato base, which yields a little over 1 gallon of gelato
To prepare the weed butter:
2 to 3 cups water
1/2 to 1 oz. weed
In a pan, bring the water to a boil. Add the butter and weed.
Lower the heat to below a simmer and cook for a few hours. Make sure the weed isn’t sticking to the bottom of the pan. It should be floating at least 1 inch from the bottom. Stir occasionally.
You will know it is done when all the water has evaporated and the top starts to look thick. Cool to room temperature. Mix with a hand blender while the butter is still soft; this action will grind up the weed.
Refrigerate the weed butter. Check it after an hour; the leaves will sink to the bottom and separate. If there are watery parts, put the butter back on the stove to cook them out. (Note: Some people like to strain the butter before it solidifies. But I didn’t.)
Bring the butter to room temperature and mix it a bit before incorporating it into these recipes.
**To prepare the weed tuile: **
120 grams egg whites at room temperature (about 4 egg whites)
85 grams powdered sugar
85 grams white sugar
180 grams all-purpose flour
60 grams melted weed butter
Using a mir with a paddle attachment, mix the egg whites and sugars on low speed until well combined. Gradually mix in the flour and salt. Add the melted weed butter last in a slow stream and increase the speed to medium. Mix until well combined with no lumps remaining. Pour the batter into a small container and let it rest in the refrigerator for at least one hour. (Yields 532 grams or 2 cups of batter.)
Remove the batter from the fridge and spread a thin layer onto a silicone baking sheet using a small offset spatula. Spread to whatever dimensions you want; I didn’t measure but instead spread random swipes of about 1.5 by 2 inches in swooping rectangles. (If you don’t want to go through the trouble of shaping them, you can spread an even layer of batter over the entire silicone baking sheet and break apart the pieces into cracker-sized bites after baking.) Do 4 or 5 rectangles per sheet.
Place the silicone sheets on metal sheet pans and bake in a 325-degree oven for 8 to 12 minutes or until the cookie pieces are golden brown.
When done, the pieces will be flimsy and pliable for about 20 seconds. Immediately remove the pieces and hang them over the handle of a long wooden spatula to shape. Wait 1 minute and then slide them off. (Note: These are very fragile. Covered, they stay crispy for 2 to 3 days.)
Green Juice Granita
2 bunches parsley
2 bunches watercress
250 grams cream
100-200 grams honey, depending on bitterness of watercress and sweetness of apples
Feed the fruits and vegetables through a juicer; keep the liquid over an ice bath during the process or it will turn brown. 2.
Add a pinch of salt and sweeten with cream and honey.
Mix with a hand blender, strain through a fine sieve, and freeze in a shallow metal baking dish.
Scrape the mixture in the freezer with a fork every thirty minutes until frozen.
To assemble the weed dessert:
Arrange all the elements on plate as in the photograph. (Recipes do not include weed brittle sheet and hemp-seed crumble.) To garnish, add green and red sliced strawberries and strawberry flowers.