CULTURE
Strain Safari with The Strainger B Y I A N S T UA R T
Absolute Chronic Farms I rolled up to the Absolute Chronic Farms office in Gorham with a buddy. It was supposed to be a quick stop as we were headed out to Highland Lake to spend the afternoon clambaking our buddies’ ice shanty. Before I even say “hello,” Jason from ACF presents me with four jars stuffed with expertly cured buds. “Everyone is looking for that Bubblegum,” he laughs as I pop open the container and take a massive whiff of candied vanilla and pine. “We are always out of that Banner too.” I get hints of leather and dark fruit, the visualization of a study filled with books and overripe apples and red grapes. The last two jars could be in a produce aisle — Grape Tape and Planet of the Grapes. As a total sucker for a good strain name, I immediately throw a nug of the Planet into my handy pocket bowl. I am taken by how smooth and flavorful the hit is. A potent mix of fresh clove and grape-flavored hard candy. I finish the bowl and promptly pack up the Grape Tape, which has a rich savory quality to it like a homemade pie filled with late autumn fruits prepared with a recipe calling for extra sugar and spice. The two different strains paired perfectly; relaxed and happy, head high with a body buzz. After a great conversation, my buddy mentions the ice shanty and how late we were running. As we make our way out the door, Jason throws us an infused pre-roll, and I thank him for his generous hospitality. We jump in the car and head towards the lake as I take out the pre-roll. “Flower, live resin, and kief,” I say out loud. My buddy quickly shoots me an eye as he’s driving, “Should we wait and smoke the preroll with everyone on the lake?” I pull a lighter from my pocket, light the giant joint, and laugh, “What pre-roll?” Needless to say, we got lost on the way to the lake. I’m pretty sure it was karma for not sharing that giant joint. Cheeba Hawk Cheeba Hawk, a local Portland delivery company, was nice enough to drop me off a little care package on a Saturday night. They stopped by as I was about to make nachos, a dish that I have perfected over my many years of being a fat stoner with a ravaging addiction to cheese and foods that “crunch.” I decide my creativity as a chef will only be heightened if I allow myself a quick safety break before hammering together my nacho ingredients. Cheeba Hawk was nice enough to line me up with a variety of strains. Tropicana Punch and Pineapple Express both had fruity/earthy fragrances. I dug the dark, piney smell from the Purple Cindy, one of those strains that could sit you on the couch with just
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its aroma, but I landed on the fourth strain I was sent, the Blue Widow—bright and bold notes of overgrown fir and evergreen combined with honeyed citrus. I grind a nug the size of a small cellphone and roll it into a joint that dwarfs my index finger. I decided that my plan of action should be to make the nachos and throw them in the oven, head out back and spark the jibbah, and come back inside to perfectly timed finished nachos. I throw my hurried dish into the oven and head to my back porch with a canon hanging from my mouth. If the first hit had been any cleaner, it could’ve been hired as a janitor at a mop store. The citrus came through with each puff, and the herb was hitting about as smooth as a bass line in a neo-soul hip hop track. I had planned to smoke half the joint, but got lost in the sauce, smoking it all. My cheeks were warm and elevated while the high sat atop my head like a paper crown. I was baked. I went inside to a timer going off and smoke billowing out of my oven. The nachos! You know the weed’s good when you make two meals; most times, I get to eat the first one too.
K. Family Farms A friend recommended I try K. Family Farms, and I’m glad they did. I got a few strains and some pre-rolls delivered to my house by the well dressed manager, Joey. As someone who has a vast collection of Jordans and Nike SBs, I could completely appreciate the dunks he was rocking, and in the snow no less! After a pleasant conversation about our mutual love of shoes, I was presented a neatly packed bag of jars containing beautifully cured herb. The packaging was clean and professional like upscale salt water taffy targeted to the mucky-mucks visiting gift shops in coastal Maine. I was excited with the strains they had selected: Motorbreath #15, Cheesy Rider, Animal Mintz, and Goji OG. The Motorbreath was sharp with an aroma of fresh-tilled earth and peach blossoms. The Goji OG was impressive both in its buttery aroma and in how crystalised the bud was; if the trichomes had been any bigger, I would have been able to see my own reflection. The Animal Mintz was fruity and light; the jar smelled like an open box of diabetes-inducing children’s cereal filled with marshmallows and sugared fruit rings, but better. They were all killer strains, but my favorite was the Cheesy Rider. Well manicured nuggets of dark green sparkling like a goth’s costume jewelry at an industrial metal concert. It was as if pine tree sap had been boiled down with Mountain Dew, and as a white trash dude from Maine, I can’t tell you how much I appreciated
