- Baynard Woods
- This bud smells like Orange Goop and initially tasted like a bland concentrate OJ.
I did not like Frosted Oranges upon my first inhalatory perusal of its powers. The strain was a disappointment because the Indica-dominant hybrid initially seemed to possess a lot of the hallmarks of a fine variety. The buds were wrapped, as the name suggests, in both squirrelly red hairs and pristine crystals, and they had the nice, if overly forceful, smell of Orange Goop hand-washing stuff that you find in auto garages along with a bit of the grease and motor oil odor thrown in to boot. The scent is both pleasant in and of itself and harkens to all kinds of childhood memories of the coolness of the hard glossy concrete of a garage floor. But then I took my first toke, and Frosted Oranges seemed like a dud.
I was high, I suppose, but not in a particularly interesting or extremely pleasant way. I was sleepy and sluggish like I’d been drinking brandy and warm milk or something awful like that. It made me feel the bite of anxiety that compelled me to sit down and start working — my own neuroses at play — but made me too slothful and indolent to actually start working, stuck in a cycle that would not be a bad premise for a Samuel Beckett play.
I tried the strain a couple more times to similar effect. Blah. Blah de blah. Not bad but kind of flat and gray. I was mainly smoking it because I had to for the sake of this review. I took my notes a little more fastidiously than normal because, as it happened, I would be going on vacation and would be writing the review from an undisclosed location out-of-state, where I would not have access to the buds for further inspection. I still wanted to give it one more try so I took a big hit early in the morning, as fog still hugged the ground, barely burnt by the sun, and held it in and followed it with a hefty shot of coffee and suddenly the Beckett play was choreographed by Busby Berkeley.
The great writer John McPhee wrote his entire book Oranges because he wondered why his orange juice always tasted the same while every orange he ever ate tasted slightly different, unique. The first time I smoked Frosted Oranges, it was like a bland concentrate orange juice. But as I took an early morning hit in the midst of a big, mildly stressful rush, it suddenly became not only an individual orange but what Henry Miller referred to as the oranges of Hieronymus Bosch, in his reflections on Big Sur, California, where oranges in the freaky Dutch Master’s paintings represented paradise.
Suddenly, I was moving through my tasks floating and free, edge off but ability unblunted. This switcharoo, a surprise trap door within the strain, highlights the problem with these reviews — they are wildly subjective and had I taken one toke fewer, I would have written a totally different review of the strain.
I don’t know why it was different that morning than it was at first. But it was and I learned this strain is good to hit before an early morning trip on a train.