Drying and Curing White Widow Buds

Drying White Widow is like babysitting a moody teenager—too much attention and you smother it, too little and it goes rogue. You’ve trimmed your buds, sticky as hell, your scissors gummed up like they’ve been dipped in syrup. Now what? Hang them. Somewhere dark, cool, and not too dry. 60°F-ish, 55% humidity, give or take. Don’t obsess over numbers. Feel the air. Smell it. If it reeks like fresh-cut grass, you’re on the right track. If it smells like moldy socks, you’ve already screwed up.

Hang them upside down. Whole branches, if you can. More stem means slower dry, and slower dry means smoother smoke. Don’t rush it. Don’t blast fans directly at them like you’re trying to dry laundry. Gentle air movement, that’s it. Let them breathe, not bake. And for the love of all things green, no heat lamps. This isn’t a lizard tank.

After about 5-10 days—depends on your space, your climate, your luck—the buds should feel dry on the outside. Crispy-ish. But bend a stem and listen. If it snaps, not bends, you’re close. Not done. Close. This is where people get cocky and ruin it. Don’t jar them up yet. Let them sit another day or two. Let them whisper to you. They’ll tell you when they’re ready.

Now comes curing. The part everyone skips or half-asses. Don’t. This is where White Widow becomes White Widow. Sticky, piney, earthy, with that weird citrus bite that hits you in the back of the throat. You want that? Then get some mason jars. Quart size. Wide mouth. Fill them ¾ full—don’t cram them. Let them breathe. Pop the lids once or twice a day for the first week. Burping, they call it. It’s not cute. It’s necessary. You’re letting out moisture and letting in fresh air. Mold is always lurking. Waiting. Be paranoid.

After a week, you can slow down. Burp every couple days. After two weeks, maybe once a week. Some folks cure for a month. Some for three. I knew a guy who cured for six months and swore it tasted like lemon cake and gasoline. He might’ve been full of shit. Still, it was smooth as silk.

Don’t expect perfection. Some jars will be better than others. Some buds will be dry as dust, others still sticky in the middle. That’s just how it goes. You’ll learn. You’ll mess up. You’ll open a jar one day and it’ll smell like hay and disappointment. Toss it. Move on.

But when it works—when you crack that lid and the smell punches you in the face like a memory you didn’t know you had—it’s worth it. That’s White Widow done right. Not rushed. Not overthought. Just cared for. Like it matters. Because it does.