A drop of golden honey

One of my favorite childhood memories is of my father suiting up in his beekeeper regalia to check the hives or harvest the honeycomb. The broad-brimmed hat covered in netting that fell to his shoulders, the long sleeved shirt and long gloves.



We would wait impatiently for him to bring in a bucket of the dripping chunks of comb, some of it darker because it was older, all of it gooey and sweet. We would sample the golden drops and try to determine what the bees had been feasting upon: alfalfa? clover? peach blossoms, perhaps?


We would spread the amber goodness on our toast, drop it into tea, or, if mother wasn't looking, eat it with a spoon straight out of the jar.


Then chewing the waxy comb, we formed it into fantastic shapes with our teeth and tongues until we could maul it no longer.


Beekeeping was only a hobby for my father, so as the hives aged and his interest waned, our jobs as honey testers faded away. I now seek out "homegrown" honey at the farmers' market, and ask the vendors not to tell me what they feed the bees. The mystery of that first taste is part of the allure. I long to have a few bee boxes in my own backyard... Wouldn't that be sweet?