The fertile women in the basement are reaching maturity. Quietly, under lock and key, they hum along. From seed, they mature into these tall, fragrant plants whose flowers give me the chance to breathe, feel happy, stop worrying.
See those white crystals? Like frost settling on leaves? Those are trichomes, pure THC, and they are the magic that gets you high.When growing your own weed, you have to keep an eye on the color of those beautiful crystals. Trichomes tell you when the bud is at its peak potency. From translucent, to milky white, and finally amber. One by one the plants are ready for cutting down and are hung from clothespins to dry. Gathered together in a dry heap, it all looks so unimpressive. And yet these drying nuggets are the ticket to my sanity.
After they dry we trim from the branch, put into glass jars, and leave to cure. Occasional burping of the jars, but for the most part they buds just sit, gathering strength and potency. Flavor and aroma. In wine we call it “terroir”- the unique flavors that only the climate and environment of the growing site can provide.I guess the terroir of my weed is… the conditions of the basement grow room.
Hard to believe the restrictions governments have put on this plant. A plant that survives and flowers and harvested at the peak of its ripeness. A plant humans have coexisted with and learned to use for their benefit. Not developed in a lab. Just a weed. A wiry, skunk-smelling weed that manages to still be beautiful.
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