The first recipient of my free weed came up this week with a case of organic evaporated milk I had requested from Whole Foods in Vegas. (I was expecting about twenty-four cans but it turned out to be more like sixty which makes me smile goofily when I see that stack of sweet stuff in the utility room.)
She heated up delicious home-made chicken enchiladas she had brought for our dinner and the next morning headed out to the hills to visit an ill mutual friend.
While she was gone I spent an hour bagging the untrimmed and slightly seeded weed. In the bottom of the garbage bag I put four grocery bags of one plant, a too-strong cross between Girl Scout Cookie and Purple Punch called GMO. Then I bagged up some samples from about six other strains and continued filling the bag. I triple-bagged the whole mess for her trip back to Nevada.
(She was only able to get away from her mountain home outside Las Vegas because her husband, who has brain cancer, got aphasia, fell, and was recuperating in rehab for ten days. She has lymphoma herself.)
She gave me four of her father's guayabera shirts and I traded her four jars of “Nutzo,” the organic seven-nut spread from Costco which her husband likes.
The night before she left she said, “So what do you want for this weed?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Well, I don't want to rip you off,” she said.
“I'm ripping myself off,” I said.
“How about a thousand?” she said and brought ten hundies over from the side table.
“Sure, thanks!” I said. I love money.
She disappeared early the next morning on her way to spend Thanksgiving with her 102 year-old mother in Reno.