Anything with diamond milk is some of the best Imo
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Think I do too.
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Great news!
Now. About the prick who started this. Let it go or retributionâŚ
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I had a Redline and rode half pipes and riding all over town with buddies all summer and on weekends until I turned 16.
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Ya i quit going to the skatepark once i had my first girlfriend who gave it up! My rollerblades officially got retired! 
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Yeah she might be a lighter eater as I maintained my standard feeding. My two top dressings are just Flower Girl, insect frass and a dash of glacier rock. Once in flower she got Build A Bloom, Sea K and powdered molasses. Not high Nitrogen additives so not sure what her whatâs her deal?
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I got the 120 micron screen tray for my box in. Had 23 grams of flower keef (2 light runs) and 4 grams of trim 1 light run on the 150. Sifted on the 120 and ended up with 13.7 grams. Iâm going to do a little extraction on the fluff to see whatâs left in it.
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Tray scraps blend
OMG
Now that I can type again. Really.
Its like the first time I got really really blasted.
It tasted great too. And colorful. 3 from my recent grows and I added a little bit of nice dispo weed to top the load.
Iâve got to write this down. This would blow my sonâs girlfriendâs mind.
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We are fortunate that we could travel with our kids. They have grown up to be real adventurers.
My son made an interesting itinerary. He bought lots of tickets for the best major league baseball teams in Japan. It will let him explore different cities and regions.
My wife bought Saporo Beer because that city is the first game. Sheâs funny that way.
So my son arrived at Saporo and sent this picture entering the city. Zoom in to the big bright sign near the center.
LOL
Itâs Asahi beer.
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Not great, but I had all the things on the property already so itâs cost me $0.00
I might get some new hardware cloth to retry it, but I might just also try to run it as is one time
Just have to figure out a handle or something to attach the drill to to make it spin
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If it was who I believe it could well be, She is in a living hell of her own doing. She just does not see it. I believe that to be part of the karma earned.
No, I do not need to wish any more evil upon her, forgive maybe someday.
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A local or relative?
or⌠did her family own the competing restaurant?
Now THAT would make for a compelling story.
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The plot thickensâŚ
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My dadâs third wifeâs children. The story real beyond fiction. But a pot of poison I will steer clear.
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IS IT though?
I think itâs more COMPLEX than that. FAR. MORE. COMPLEX.
âŚ
The STREET didnât have a name people remembered anymoreâjust a feeling.
Old Fresno, sunburned sidewalks, and the kind of heat that clung to your skin and followed you into kitchens. Thatâs where Man-o-Green (to those who knew him), learned the kind of cooking that didnât come from books.
He learned it from Nini.
Cruz Estrada had been many things to many people, but to Man-o-Green , she was something more rare: someone who didnât just teach recipes, but discipline. Timing. Respect. She never wrote anything down.
âJust because you have a recipe,â sheâd say, âdoes not mean you can cook the food.â
Man-o-Green believed her.
But not everyone did.
The Competition
A few doors down, across the same tired stretch of pavement, stood CalderĂłnâs Table.
Miguel CalderĂłn built it from scratch. No legacy. No inheritance. Just long nights, hard work, and a stubborn refusal to be overshadowed by what people whispered was âuntouchable.â
At first, it was friendly.
A nod across the street. Shared suppliers. Even the occasional drink after closing.
But business has a way of sharpening edges.
Customers compared. Critics speculated. Lines formedâand not always in the same place.
Miguel started watching Man-o-Green.
Not in admirationâbut in frustration (sometimes sexual.)
Because no matter how close he got, no matter how many times he adjusted seasoning, timing, technique⌠something was always missing.
And the worst part?
Man-o-Green never seemed to try.
The Daughter
Miguel had a daughterâLucia.
She grew up in the kitchen, same as Man-o-Green had. Learned to chop before she could write. Learned heat, rhythm, pressure.
But she also learned something else:
Resentment.
She saw the way people spoke about Man-o-Green. The reverence. The way her fatherâher fatherâwould go quiet when comparisons came up.
Lucia didnât believe in magic.
She believed in answers.
And she believed Man-o-Green was keeping them.
The Night
No one ever agreed on the details.
There was shouting. That much was certain.
Miguel had crossed the streetâsomething he hadnât done in years. Words were exchanged. Old wounds opened.
Some say it was about recipes.
Others say it was about pride.
What everyone agrees on is how it ended.
A shattered bottle.
A slip.
Blood on tile that never quite lost the stain.
Miguel CalderĂłn died that night.
And the street went quiet.
The Silence That Followed
CalderĂłnâs Table closed within months.
Lucia disappeared from the neighborhood not long after. Some said she moved north. Others said she stayed closer than anyone realized.
Man-o-Green kept cooking.
He always did.
But something in him changed too. Not outwardlyânever outwardly. But the kind of change you see in the way someone pauses just a second longer than they used to.
The Book
Years passed.
Time softened the edges of memory, but not all of them.
Man-o-Green sat alone one evening, surrounded by notes he had never intended to write. Recipes that had lived only in motion, now forced into stillness on paper.
Nini had been clear.
Donât write them down.
But Man-o-Green was the last one.
And he refused to let them die with him.
So he finished the book.
Not for profit. Not for fame.
But because some things, he believed, deserved to outlive the people who carried them.
The Attempt
Lucia found it by accident.
A recommendation. A listing. A title that felt like a wound reopening.
There it was.
Everything her father had chased. Everything he had lost himself trying to reach.
Packaged. Sold. Reviewed.
Five stars.
She read it.
Every page.
And what she found wasnât theft.
It was worse.
It was⌠truth.
Technique. Precision. Detail. Not secretsâskill. The kind her father had never been taught.
The kind he had tried to force his way into.
The Fight
She filed complaints.
Copyright. Ownership. Cultural claim. Anything she could reach for.
Emails. Reports. Appeals.
She told her story.
Told his story.
But the responses came back the same, every time:
The book remains.
The Ending
Lucia stood outside what used to be CalderĂłnâs Table.
The building was something else now. Something forgettable.
Across the street, the light still burned in Man-o-Greenâs kitchen.
She could go in.
Say something. Do something.
But she didnât.
Because for the first time, she understood something her father never did.
Man-o-Green hadnât beaten them.
He had simply learned something they hadnât.
And no amount of anger, no amount of blood, no amount of history could take that away.
The book stayed.
The past didnât.
And the street, once divided, finally fell silent.
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Nice!
I would add a row zip ties going down where i put the stripes and make it where the tail is pointing inwards! They will work like fingers to help tumble the buds inside!
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