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Strain review: Sunday Brunch 

click to enlarge This bud, which appears as if Gaudí-designed, evokes buttered blueberry muffins. - BAYNARD WOODS
  • Baynard Woods
  • This bud, which appears as if Gaudí-designed, evokes buttered blueberry muffins.
I’ve always really liked the idea that the mid-20th-century British painter Francis Bacon — he of the screaming popes — liked to paint with a hangover because it helped him capture the sharp, painful edges that he wanted in his paintings. There’s a certain insight that can come from the hard tweaking of the aftermath of a long drinking session. It’s nothing like the faux-Rimbaud “prolonged derangement of the senses” that makes one a poet and a seer in the horrible and idiotic juvenile-fever dream of new Harmony Korine/Matthew McConaughey flick The Beach Bum. No, the hangover is useful as a moral, or at least physical, reckoning.

Whatever you drink, the real and only hangover cure in my opinion is weed. The medicinal properties of cannabis — especially the anti-nausea effect — converge exceptionally well with the adverse effects of booze. And it primes you for those other cures: a bunch of eggs and a Bloody Mary.

Sunday Brunch, an Indica-heavy cross between Clementine and Purple Punch, is an especially sharp hangover remedy. With over 20 percent THC and a nice packing of pinene, limonene and myrcene, it is like a Bloody Mary, both intoxicating and somehow revivifying, and maybe a little overfilled and over-filling. Clementine is a Sativa-leaning hybrid that is itself a combo of Tangie and Lemon Skunk, while Purple Punch is the offspring of Larry OG and Grandaddy Purp. As what my co-reviewer Brandon Soderberg calls weed maximalism, Sunday Brunch is like a weed version of a Bloody Mary with bacon and shrimp and kale and toast all shoved in a pint glass with a tomato juice and vodka mix so packed with spices that it is almost brown.

And that’s not a bad thing. Not necessarily at least. These flowers can be a feast for the senses. Covered with a complex web of trichome crystals, the buds rise up into comical spires, each tipped, it seems, by a single straggly red hair. The buds look almost more like they are closer to the mineral kingdom than the vegetable, as if Antoni Gaudí designed a flower.

The smell is equally complex and layered: like fresh blueberry muffins with butter melting on them, but only outside and in a breeze beneath a blooming cherry tree and a pine tree dribbling sap down its trunk. That smell becomes so much flatter when it is combusted — more than most flower — so if you really want to taste, go for a vaporizer, which brings out the berry flavor.

After a healthy helping of whiskey on a recent night, I awoke not wretched but a bit groggy and unsettled the next day. I packed up a big bowl of Sunday Brunch and sure enough, after exhaling the second hit, everything lightened up, like a window was opened, and the sharp edges of the Francis Bacon painting started to blur into the lighter, hazier, and infinitely more comfortable blur of a Monet. Far less interesting as art, but much more pleasant as a way to make it through a morning. But a couple hours later, I learned it has a harsh comedown that, if you need to keep pushing through the day, sends you spinning out in that blur, feeling even more tired than before.

Strength: 6
Nose: Blueberry muffins
Euphoria: 7
Existential dread: 2
Freaking out when a crazy person approaches you: 2
Drink pairing: Bloody Mary
Music pairing: “Sunday Morning 
Coming Down,” by Kris Kristofferson
Rating: 7

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