Tropsanto by H.O.C.

Tropsanto by House of Cultivar

Welcome back to toasted n’ posted where we delve into the dankest fruits that Washington has to offer. Today, we have an especially spicy strain to break up the monotony of quarantine. A sign of the times, Tropsanto is a cross of the wildly popular Tropicanna Cookies and GMO. Strains each earning affection in their swelling niches, I’m curious to see if one doesn’t steal the show from the other. Often times, two parents juggling several complexities can negate each others traits rather than build symbiotically. Let’s think until we stink.

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I leap into the jar eagerly awaiting the bubbly unbridled tang of Tropicanna. I am instead struck by an herbal pungency, a hashy sledgehammer serrated by a vaporous sting. Slicing sweetness stems from the tired musk. Sensitive beads of orange roll out from the stern sylvan curtain, adding a degree of fruity warmth to the hardened earthy spice. Crackles of smoked sizzle dance atop the blackened bed of bark.

Veiled in only the shallowest film of tangy syrup, the thin jacket fails to offset much of the forward garlic funk. A pillowy bulldozer of char and meaty funk dripping with savory grease. Slick with foul forest lubricant, the profile offers lessened friction as it transitions into the smoked hickory realm. The profile molts through all traits of sweetness to remain smoky, woody, and grassy.

In hopes of provoking the slumbering citrus, I snap the flowers under my nose. Spiking for a moment, the snap of sugary emphasis quickly subsides to the greasy milk of onion. Heavy, woody, and foul; Tropsanto is a potpourri of forested funk. A rocky char smolders atop a rubbery funk until the repelling ferocity churned to a creamy texture. The spicy potpourri embodies trails of sour cedar, damp grassy mildew, and oniony skunk. Refined to a stretch of refreshing crunch, the staggering invigoration nears mint in pungency.

A wild experiment stitched together by little more than spindly stems and magic. Cloudlike calyxes rest around a skyward stalk; featherweight nodes of empty bulk contorting into gravity-defiant shapes. Piled marbles with no brace, it seems that even the slightest vibration could shatter the reaching ambitions of Tropsanto. Grooving trails carve through the cavernous lumped realms. Each vantage point presents itself as a window into a fractured geode. Ripples of hardened crystal-coated mass map the vast emptiness between the marshmallow marbles.

Midnight hilltops washed over with a vibrant white. The trichomes are relentlessly highlighted by the seeping depth of the purples below. Tropsanto is a universe of bruised eggplant veined by whirling strands of warm tangerine and milky white constellations. Streaks of austere frost skip across the drowning pockets of sangria. The flowing dark demeanor collapses under the lightest pressure. Any mark is made permanent by the foam fragility of the star-studded flesh. It takes less than a squeeze to convince myself of this strain’s vaporous density.

Leaf to flame, my palate is buried under a muddy pile of meaty foul. Drizzled with ocimene inspired syrup, an oddly off-putting perfume soaks into the porous flesh. Horned sour hash, the bold peppery spikes stem down to a basin of rich sappy earth. Mild sprites of citrus kindle into a explosive cloud of sweet soot and acrid repulsion.

It takes a talented tongue to survive the scathing mannerisms of Tropsanto. Assuaged only by trickles of oaty cream and onion-enriched bouillon, the offensive spice persists through each stage of evolution. Tropsanto sums up to be a margarita barring the medley of fruit-driven sweetness. I am left marooned only to the spiked salty grit, puckering sour thunder, and chilled piercing funk.

The high begins to mold like a slab of clay being shaped around my skull. My mind becomes comforted, protected, and insulated as the soft cage continues to encapsulate my spirit. Whether the intention is to protect the treasures of my twisted psyche or to trap them for a traveling circus, it is too early to tell. With each passing minute, the razor wire lattice wrenches ever tighter. My brain feels like a hunk of cheese being forced through cross-stitched wire cutters. I cannot begin to describe the debasing satisfaction accompanying shedding layers of personal esteem in an instant.

My ego continues to wither as the winds of euphoria swell. The snaring snake of coaxed pleasure slithers down the rest of my body. The repositioned slug of snug comfort hardens; poising limbs for future jettison. Soon, I am left to no more than a floating head. A husk of a man preserved as a trophy bound only to the phantasmal tension I feel cranking a goofy grin across my face.

Tropsanto is a unique strain packed with gunpowder and funky spice. If you want to draw a powerful high from the back of an ironclad cannon, this strain is for you. While not suffering as much as many other strains born through married hype; Tropsanto struggles to represent qualities from either parent in any full and flourishing fashion. As always, thanks for reading.

Tropsanto score: 81/100

Aroma – 18

Physical – 15

Flavor – 14

Consistency – 18

Sensation – 16

Stay high and stay blessed,

Kushman Bonglegs

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