“‘Scuse me, Jan…”
Jan Molotov looked over at my raised hand, meeting it with a raised eyebrow, seeing the point of the bees that stung me for being a nuisance the other week. (“You had it coming.”)
“…yes, Josh?”
“Does Chinese honey have MSG in it?”
Who let me in the beekeeping meeting?
A man from way up the road tried not to roll his eyes.
Jan answered the question.
And so began the honey tasting session the other night. Everyone brought a sample from their hives, put it in unmarked bottles, and we voted.
One in particular caught me. The bees must have been more storytellers than workers, because while they didn’t fan their honey enough (it had too much water in it), the bottle could have written a book.
When honey is wet, it starts to ferment, turning towards mead (I think), the bee turned brewer.
A dollop on the little plastic spoon, and the florescent lights in the church basement faded to a cool green of a blackberry thicket on a June evening when the wood thrush pipes his lonely song. To dewy mornings when the nighshade blooms dot the grass like stars roosting for the day. To the drone of a thousand tiny wings on a sleepy afternoon and…
Man. Don’t let me try moonshine. (Fermented honey is enough.)
Speaking of magic…
If you’re taking a break from dreaming this evening, go outside ‘round midnight (or 3 am, technically), face east, say hello to the lion, and spot a meteor. The Leonids peak tonight. You might see a greenish white blaze streak across the late sky, wishing you a goodnight as you head back to bed.
Keep looking up.
Josh