I want the things I can't have. It could be a particularly American problem. Who can tell anymore? Either way, that old drive made me choose Forbidden Fruit (THC: 20.81%—$10/gram) right off the menu at Cannaceutics without even asking about the specs.
I hadn't had much time to look at the menu, mind you. For the first time ever, I beat the rush and was the only person in line. It's been a while since I visited last, and one of the reasons I stopped coming by was the constantly crowded waiting room. (I just couldn't get the timing down right, I guess.) Since then, they've knocked out a wall and expanded into the next office, giving patients plenty of leg room while they wait.
(Another change I would notice later was the addition of testing results on their packaging, something they weren't doing the last time I passed through. Good for them.)
What wasn't different was the lack of a showroom. There were no edibles or cutesy packaging to admire, no slick glass cases full of glass paraphernalia—just a menu, a take-a-number machine and a teller window in one wall.
I've gotten used to the clinical setting, but I can still remember feeling uncomfortable the first time I walked into the sparsely decorated, cave-like office. If you've never been there, make sure not to let the atmosphere color your experience. The staff (especially the one and only budtender I've ever seen behind the counter) are very friendly and knowledgeable. You just have to talk to them through what appears to be bullet-proof glass.
After finding out that an ancient punch card hiding in the back corner of my wallet afforded me a free pre-roll, I picked out Purple Widow (THC: 18.13%—$12/gram) to go along with my first choice. This one was less of a knee-jerk move. I'm a big fan of White Widow (one of the strain's parents), and my favorite color is purple. Easy choice.
I rolled out just as three other patients rolled in. Suckers, I thought.
I drove through the liquid heat of the day and ran to my apartment. Anticipatory sweat streamed between my shoulder blades as I peeled away the packaging of the fetchingly-named Forbidden Fruit. I broke apart the buds, feeling their weight and presence. They were sticky and moist, leaving tacky patches on the tips of my fingers after the pipe was packed. Aromatic and charming, it curled in the bowl, patiently waiting for me to make the next move.
I lit it with gusto and took a deep, throat-clenching hit. I gasped and coughed. It tasted sweet and fruity, with sour highlights. It took a moment, but the unmistakable flavor of taboo was clearly there. It's hard to describe to someone who hasn't tasted it—kind of like licking a battery slathered in strawberry jam or mustard? No, no. It's gone. I've lost it.
The indica side of this strain seemed the most pronounced to me. The effects were predictably sensual. My mind went quiet as my limbs went slack and my body opened up. My pupils dilated, my breathing slowed. I was overcome with a sense of returning to a familiar and comforting void. I rested there, beyond the world of sensation and temporal placement. It was very pleasant.
A little while later—after a slowly eaten and thoroughly enjoyed dinner—I topped off the evening with taste of Purple Widow. I was still tender from the first bowl, so I started a bit more slowly. The buds were just as fresh and springy as the Fruit, but with a denser body and a robust, earthy scent. It tasted tangy and swampy, with peppery exhales that tickled my throat and caused me to squirm and cough.
Despite being listed as an indica-dominant hybrid, I noticed effects I usually associate with sativas—namely: a giggly sense of well-being coupled with a sharp tongue. I was overwhelmed with an unexpected sense of belonging and the desire to talk, talk, talk.
It was getting late, though, and I was expecting a more laid back after-dinner experience, so I did something I rarely talk about in polite company: I mixed both strains in a single bowl and strapped in for a fun, sexy time.
After a few hits, I forgot what I was doing and wandered out onto the patio. The night was lazy and dreamy. The railing overlooks a field of brush, and I sensed movement below. Generations of rabbits have made the spot their home and it isn't uncommon to see a few running around. Coyotes come through from time to time, grabbing the odd meal and scaring the shit out of me when I spot them.
I froze and listened to the rustling. After some time, a gurgling moan escaped from between the dusty branches. My concern spiked before I realized it was just a stray cat making some kind of terrible mating call. Disgusting.