Greenpoint Farmcast, Episode One. A mother died in the Florida heat this summer, and three plants made a case for her seat in the fall feminized run. Listen below, or read it straight through.
This is Gu, from Greenpoint Seeds. I want to tell you about a chair that went empty on my farm this summer, and the fight over who got to sit in it.
First, some geography. I grow in Florida, and Florida runs backwards. Everybody else in the country is deep in their outdoor season right now, plants stacking weight through August. Down here, you can flower all year long, that’s the gift. The price is the summer. From late June through August that greenhouse gets so hot and so humid the plants basically call it. A little growth in the early morning, a little in the evening, and they shut down through the middle of the day. Nothing sets flower in that. So summer here is the quiet season, and the mothers just have to sit there and survive it.
I keep about a hundred and fifty mothers. When you keep a hundred and fifty plants alive through a Florida summer, you lose one or two a year. That’s just arithmetic. A mother’s whole job is to exist, and some of them get shuffled to a corner nobody checks often enough. That’s why genetics belong in seed.
This summer, the arithmetic came for Motorbreath number fifteen.
Me and that plant go way back. I was there for the original Pisces Genetics drop. You can still dig up the forum threads from February of 2013, everybody refreshing the page waiting for Motorbreath to finally hit The Seed Depot. I bought in day one, same year I packed up and moved to Colorado. Chem D into SFV OG Kush, and for that exact moment in cannabis history, it was just money. Pisces was doing it, Illuminati was doing it, and between the two of them it became obvious that Chem and OG was the match made in heaven. The OG gave the chem bag appeal it never had. The chem took that OG earth and made it funky. And for five or six years, funky OGs ran everything.
Now, the mother I lost was the famous cut herself, number fifteen. Somewhere along the road in Colorado she made it into my garden, and I honestly couldn’t tell you how anymore. Cuts like her moved through Colorado in those days like currency, and if you were plugged in, sooner or later she came through your door.
Here’s the part people forget. Back then, the sweet stuff was looked down on. Candy flavors were considered weak, a waste of a cycle, low yield, slow to finish. The gas guys were the establishment and the dessert guys were a curiosity. Now look around. The menu flipped completely. That’s the real challenge of keeping a garden, more than bugs, more than heat. Taste never stops moving, and a mother room is a bet on where it’s going next.
So when number fifteen died this summer, I took it as a rebirth. Sometimes it’s just time to move on, especially when you still hold the ingredients. I keep the chems and I keep the OGs, so that idea is never truly gone, and the day nostalgia comes all the way back around, and it’s circling right now, I can build her again from scratch. But her seat was in my fall feminized run, and that seat belongs to whatever comes next.
Three plants on my bench made a case for the chair. Before I tell you about them, I have to tell you about the father, because none of this works without him.
Every feminized run lives or dies on one plant, and it’s the one nobody talks about. The donor. And picking a donor in the chem family is a genuine problem, because I’m going to tell you something it took me years of burned runs to learn. The chemdogs do not reverse. I have never gotten a straight chem to flip with silver thiosulfate. Not once. The only chems that give you pollen are the outcrosses. Cross a chem to a cookie, it reverses. Chem to something sweet, it reverses. Chem to a purple, it reverses. But the pure line refuses the silver every single time. Whatever stubbornness makes a chem a chem apparently runs all the way down to refusing to be anybody’s father.
So if you want to make feminized chem gas, you’re hunting a unicorn. Something deep enough in the chem lane to smell like the real thing, carrying just enough outside blood that the spray actually takes.
Mine is A-Dub. Sour Double under Alien Dawg, Sour Diesel and Bubblegum blood on one side, Alien blood on the other, and she flips clean every time. Frost like a seized engine, resin everywhere, calyxes blown out to where the bud looks swollen, and this cherry hash chem flavor that barely exists anywhere else in the seed world. Feminized pollen off a plant like that is the whole trick of my program.
And people forget where she sits in history. A-Dub was the last elite pedigree to drop before Cookies swallowed all the oxygen in the room. A perfect polyhybrid, assembled from the best blood of her moment, released right as that one cut out of San Francisco started its surge. Within a few years, nothing else could get famous. Whole families of serious plants got buried under that wave, and A-Dub is the prime example. Extreme talent, eclipsed by timing.
I use her for one thing, on purpose. I keep her in her lane. Chem family mothers only. I want her pollen making sniper crosses. Precise, deathly potent, angry plants that exist to be the stunner in somebody’s garden. Spread a donor like her across the whole menu and you water everything down into one flavor. Keep her aimed, and every pack she touches comes out violent.
That was the lane Motorbreath fifteen was supposed to occupy. Her chair, her pollen, her lineage of gas. Which means the empty chair came down to one question. Which mother deserves this pollen.
Three candidates. And to explain how two of them ended up on my bench, I have to tell you about a handshake.
For years, my seed production ran through a grower back in Colorado. I started carrying his seed in the store in 2019, and eventually he was producing the whole feminized catalog. Then the industry did what the industry does. Prices collapsed, everything got hard, and I made the call to leave Colorado, come home to Florida, build a real farm, and raise my kids where I could see them. Times like that split up working relationships, and it split ours.
But we split it right. No lawyers, no forum drama. A handshake. He got access to my garden, the library I’d spent a decade building. And I got access to his, including the newer cuts he’d collected while I was busy pouring concrete. That trade is how Lunch Money number fifty came to my bench. It’s also how Tricho Jordan did. An olive branch with roots on it.
Now, Tricho Jordan is Chimera two crossed to Chimera three. Which means I can’t tell this story without talking about Beleaf, and I’m not going to pretend the man isn’t complicated.
The Chimera work is real. The Creature into White Truffle, that GG4 backbone sitting a few generations deep, and the flower speaks for itself. When his seed hit auction it went four figures a pack, and honestly, that part doesn’t move me at all. Every few years somebody sells the most expensive seeds in the world. A price tag fades.
The real controversy is uglier. He got caught on a mic in a domestic incident with his girlfriend. It went around everywhere, and a lot of growers swore his gear off for good over it. Said they’d never pop another one of his beans. For what it’s worth, they’re still together, the two of them, so make of that what you will. What he did was shitty, and I’ll say that plain. But I’ve come around to this. If the weed is good, at some point you have to separate the weed from the man. The plant didn’t do anything. The plant might be the best gas anybody’s made in years.
So that was my bench in August. Lunch Money number fifty, Garlic Icing seven into Meat Breath, my own numbered selection, the natural flavor heir to everything Motorbreath stood for. A Chimera three cut, the famous name itself. And Tricho Jordan, Chimera on both sides, the rarest blood in my building, carrying all that fire and all that baggage at the same time.
One chair. One rule I don’t break, no overlap in a run, every seat earns its own lane. And two days of me arguing with myself.
Here’s how the decision actually went, because the argument is the most honest thing I can share with you.
The case for Lunch Money was discipline. Motorbreath’s seat was the savory seat. Meat Breath brings the Mendo Breath earth and the GMO garlic, and the Chem D is still in there, pushed back to great-grandparent where it belongs in 2026. Same lane, evolved ten years. Clean, logical, safe. And she’s my own numbered pheno. Nobody else on this planet holds Lunch Money number fifty. For about a day, that was my answer. I even told the farm to prep her.
Then I sat with it that night and asked the only question that matters when you’re deciding what deserves to go into seed. Am I picking the plant that fits the old chart, or the plant people will still be arguing about in five years? A run only has so many chairs. Every chair you give a safe pick is a chair you took from a great one.
Chimera three almost won it on name alone. But Tricho Jordan is the deeper play. She’s Chimera squared, the selection past the selection. And timing is everything in this business. That blood is at its peak right now, today. A cut like that saved in the corner of a greenhouse loses value every month she sits. Hype has a shelf life. You spend the hot cut while it’s hot.
That’s the American model, by the way, and I’ll die on this hill. The Europeans built an industry selling White Widow for thirty-five years, and you’ll notice they’ve stopped winning anything. A breeder holds the sharpest collection he can assemble this season and keeps asking what’s next. Guard a museum long enough and you become a gift shop.
So at nine o’clock at night I reversed my own call. Pulled Lunch Money off the sheet and wrote Tricho Jordan into the Motorbreath seat, under the A-Dub. Ran my overlap check twice, because she carries GG4 down deep, and GG4 carries old sour blood, and A-Dub’s Sour Double winks right back at it across three generations. I ruled it reinforcement. The gas lane got gassier.
Thursday morning, the cuts came off her. A tray of cubes on the south bench, next to fresh cuts from RS eleven and Grumpz, the other two plants that inherited chairs this season. Those are their own stories. By the time anybody sees what comes of this, those cubes will have been mothers themselves for a year. That’s the part of this nobody sees. A pack of seeds is the last page of a story that started eighteen months earlier, in a hot greenhouse, with a dead plant, a handshake, and a man I made my peace with to use his life’s work.
Motorbreath held that chair for over a decade of my life. She earned the eulogy. But the chair belongs to whoever’s next.
This is Gu, from Greenpoint Seeds. Next time, I’ll tell you about the pollen in my freezer that can never be made again, and the seven hundred plants waiting on it.