The great thing about growing your own produce is the priceless experience of enjoying the fruits of your labor when the growing season hits its stride. Word: “Weed”. My crop went into an unexpected flowering this summer, due to lack of light when I went away one weekend, and forgot to reset the light timer. And I have been harvesting fresh, sticky, whole-body-high (indica?) baby buds every couple of days like clockwork for the last two weeks. I want the plant exhausted of it, and so I pick them as they appear ready, and, well, I’m so, well, baked as I write this evening. Two plants, every two-three days. Plenty for me, not enough for a friend. My prediction: there will be bras, stilleto heels, short dresses, and probably some leg shearing this fine night somewhere in central Carolina. Baby buds, manna from our mother.