Sour Sunset Crasher Hashish By the Dank Duchess


With a mutual appreciation for art, a trip to the world famous de Young Museum in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park the next day, on New Year’s Day, is deemed a wonderful idea. AC and I are both interested in a highly anticipated exhibition of contemporary Muslim fashion. I am not quite sure what to expect, but I keep my mind open and free of prejudices and preconceived notions.

My husband Nicholas and I meet up with AC and G and decide to have a quick hotbox before we enter the museum. I find that I always appreciate art a bit more with some THC flowing through my blood. We do not have much space in the car, so we choose to use my Nectar Collector, which is easy and fast. Using a small torch, I light the tip before dipping it into the large jar of Hashish. We are not doing anything special; just hitting the Hashish quick and dirty style. In being in too much of a rush, I do not allow the tip to cool properly before touching it to the Hashish. Almost immediately, the Hashish chars at the tip, but I do not stop inhaling. The flavor is slightly burnt, but the dependable pine rolls right over my tongue. Sour Diesel is one of those flavors you can have forever. Quickly, a change comes over me. Though we are packed into the cramped back seat, I am experiencing the utmost luxury. A constant ache that I had been bearing is steadily receding behind my eyes. It is not until relieved of pain that the realization comes that there is discomfort in the first place. Frankly, I am PMS’ing and the headache that had settled upon me is thankfully finally disappearing. It is my birthday and I will like to start the year off well.

Now appropriately high and bundled up against the blistering Bay area winter cold, we journey into Golden Gate Park. Temporarily closed to car traffic, the paved road is bustling with people enjoying a chilly, but bright New Year’s Day. My eyes dart to-and-fro at the colors adorning the bikers, the roller skaters, the skaters, the walkers, the stand around talkers, and everyone else generally milling about. I am always taken in by colors and the park goers seem to be willing away the frigid gloom both with their apparel and apparent joy at the new year. Everything feels so fresh and alive. There is a bounce to my step that is partially from the steady buzz in my ears and the desire to stay are warm as possible.

We enter the toasty museum lobby with just an hour till close. It is Tuesday, which is a free day, so the museum is packed with noisy children and their equally bustling parents, thoughtful looking tourists, and us. To our dismay our free admission does not cover specialty exhibits, so AC and I decide to leave G and Nicholas to their own devices as we want to explore the contemporary fashion. After all, they were just going along to make us happy and we want to appreciate the art in peace without subtle and not-so-subtle hints that it is time to leave. Larger than life posters of multihued beauties guide us downstairs to the awaiting exhibit. With our tickets in hand, we are practically giddy as the revving aspects of the Sour Diesel combine with the anticipation of the gorgeous exhibit. Hurrying down the hallway, we are abruptly stopped by a serious faced woman appearing to be defending the federal mint rather than a display of clothing. Rolling our eyes at each other, we show her our credentials and practically run to the entrance. We only have an hour to take it all in.

As soon as we step into the designated area, we are transported to somewhere else. Mannequins are adorned with the most dazzling combinations of textures and colors. Nowhere in sight is the drab shapeless garb we Westerners are accustomed to seeing. As we stare at the exquisite fare we are serenaded by a video projection of Mona Haydar as she raps in about the pride in wearing her beautiful hijab. I am transfixed as she spits her lyrics. In fact, all around me, people have turned to the wall to watch Muslim women of several nationalities proclaiming their strength through their manner of dress. It is the opposite message which we are constantly fed about women withering in the constraints of a patriarchy. That is probably still the case (as is in many parts of the world, Muslim or otherwise), but in this instance, these women were declaring that they would not be painted with one brush.

Fantastic! I feel their power. I feel their fortitude. What I do not feel is the power of the Sour Sunset Crasher Hashish. I look around for AC and give her the all-knowing look.

I have the Nectar Collector and she has the Hashish. It is time for a reup on our herbal stimulation.

We retrace our steps and pass the stern, but slightly-more-friendly-looking lady and hurry into the handicapped-access bathroom. Looking around, AC points to the smoke detector and the fire alarm. We retreat to the furthest corner of the small bathroom and rest our belongings on the changing tray. Will this be worth it? It’s just the first of the year and we are risking being thrown out of a world-famous museum for taking a few incognito puffs of super dank Hashish. We talk briefly about whether we believe lighting the Nectar Collector will incite screaming from smoke detector. I remember that I have an odor spray in my bag. I spray upwards expecting a large cloud of fine mist. Instead, a short burst is followed by a dripping mess. That piddling amount of air freshening will have to do. Practically crouching in the corner, I light the tip of the tool for a few seconds. Nothing happens. It seems we are in the clear. I light the tip again and deftly dip the tip into the jar of mocha resin. I watch the resin bubble along the side of the tip and I rotate it to get on all the hot surfaces as much resin as possible.

I inhale sharply and pass the tool to AC. I don’t know if there is a certain concentration that needs to be met to get the alarm going, but I want to get high enough before accidentally finding out.

Someone jiggles the knob and we burst out laughing. We flush the toilet a few times as if that will clear up the thick blue smoke that is swirling around our faces.   When the alarm does not go off, we do another round of puffing.

My mouth is dry, my eyes are wet, and my smile is broad. We are now good to go.

Back in the room full of remarkable dresses, sportswear, and pantsuits, all of the outfits seem to sparkle just a bit more. I adore intricate craftsmanship and these handmade works of art have me spellbound. Made visible by social media, and blogs, modest Muslim fashion pairs the traditional with hip new styles to give birth to eye popping creations. Oscar de La Renta and Karl Lagerfeld were both inspired by modest designs and their creations are draped alongside more youthful artists. Old meets new and everything is wondrous.

I leave the exhibit much more thoroughly educated about the nuances surrounding fashion, culture, and identity. Just as cutting through pressed Hashish reveals a beautiful inner core regardless of the condition of the outer shell, so were the complexities of modest Muslim fashion unveiled (no pun intended) when these cultures were more thoroughly regarded and investigated. Rather than enduring the customary bland and faceless images that Westerners are afforded when speaking of women in Muslim countries, visitors have a chance to delve into these cultures via colorful and vibrant worn art which speaks to the adherence to societal norms while still being mindful of individual expression.

I return home to Oakland and my energy is kind of low. The hubbub of my birthday has exhausted me, my hormones are going crazy again, and I just want to relax. But I do not want to just fall into the couch either. I need something stimulating yet relaxing. I believe the confluence of the racy Sour Diesel, the smooth Sunset Sherbet and the brazen Wedding Crasher will fit the bill precisely.

New time-saving techniques matched with old-world high standards have given rise to entirely new results that both harken back to the traditions of the past and acknowledge the coming trends of the future.   Just as a dab of pressed Sour Sunset Crasher Hashish hits the quartz banger, I smile as old school meets new school in pure perfection.

Grown and processed by G and AC of Unforgettabuds

Words and photos by The Dank Duchess

Originally published in Weed World Magazine issue 139

This article originally appeared here in

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