Ghostoked + Kava
I Ran Into The Chaos
Some may never avert their gaze
Others follow like the moths
The wayward son may find his way
Depraved souls remain forever lost
I am death, the reaper
A scythe rests in my hand
Carving a way for all the sinners
In the forest of the damned
-Summer Washko
Reading Summer Snail Washko’s Ghostoked is like waking up on a beach after a blackout bender—sun in your eyes, sand in your teeth, the ocean roaring in your ears. The trippy sequel to Ghostoke doesn’t just tell a story, it drags you into the smoke-filled, mosquito-bitten underbelly of Hawaii, where kava farmers, wild-eyed drifters, and outright psychopaths share the firelight with you.
Summer Washko writes like a woman possessed—part memoir, part hallucination, part survival manual scrawled in sweat. Her Hawaii isn’t a paradise. It’s a jungle full of knives and nectar, a place where you can lose your mind as easily as you lose your flip-flops. The prose is wild, jagged, funny as hell, and more honest than most people can stomach.
But here’s the thing: after all the chaos, after the madness and the near misses, Washko gives us what we didn’t know we were desperate for—a happy ending. Not the cheap kind, not tied up with a bow, but the kind that says yes, the world is insane, yes, it’s full of danger and beauty, but you can make it through. You can sit down at the end of the night, raise a glass, and laugh because somehow you’re still here.
Ghostoked is proof that survival can be holy, that even in the middle of the madness there’s light, and that sometimes the craziest trip of all is the one that ends with hope.
Grab your copy here: https://a.co/d/gckX0Bt
Firelight Kava for the Almost-Lost
Best served barefoot, slightly humbled, and still laughing you made it through.
Ingredients
2–3 tablespoons finely ground noble kava root (fresh if you’re lucky, powdered if you’re not)
2 cups cold water (island cool, not fridge cold)
1 tablespoon coconut milk or cream (for softness and grace)
A pinch of sea salt (because you bled a little to get here)
Optional: honey or palm sugar, just enough to take the edge off the jungle
Method
Pour the kava into a muslin bag, cheesecloth, or whatever you can find that feels vaguely ceremonial.
Submerge it in the water. Knead slowly with your hands—no rush. This is not a drink for people in a hurry. Press, squeeze, and work the root like you’re wringing out a long night.
Add coconut milk and salt. Stir gently. Think firelight, not frenzy.
Taste. If it bites back too hard, sweeten lightly. Kava isn’t meant to be pretty—it’s meant to be honest.
Pour into a simple cup. No garnish. No bullshit.
How to Drink It
Sit down. Really sit.
Take a slow sip and let the numbness creep in like the tide—tongue first, then the shoulders, then the part of your brain that’s been screaming all day.
Drink quietly. Or laugh too loud. Both are acceptable.
This is the drink you earn after surviving the madness—after the knives and nectar, the smoke and the near-misses.
A kava for the ones who didn’t disappear.
A toast to still being here.