The very first time I ever pulled a frame of honey out of my new hive, Mike and I were on our way to see some dear friends over the bridge (yes, in answer to your unasked question, I have become a senior citizen who uses phrases like “dear friends.” But these guys are lifers in the friends department, so I’m embracing the grandma vibe). I brought a frame into their house and we all plunged our fingers into the honeycomb for the first taste, and marveled at the process of how honey is made. I mean, for the love of all that is good in the world, those bees hover over the nectar, fanning their wings to evaporate water, until the nectar turns into honey. But I digress.
Then, the next time these friends were in Paris, they returned with these gorgeous pots of honey for us.
I mean, who else would haul these little (but heavy!) jars of incredibly sticky goodness in their suitcases to bring them home to us? Dear friends, that’s who.This is dangerous new territory for me: I might have to re-evaluate all my relationships on a scale that quantifies how willing my friends are to smear their wardrobes with exploded honey for me.