Country Mouse Monday: honey tasting, world eating

Two new jars of honey appeared on the kitchen counter last week.  Not exactly by magic -- my husband had left them there after getting home from work, just before slipping out with the dog for a little walk around the neighborhood.  The jars have a generic label on them, no name. The honey is a gorgeous perfect honey color.

But of course, my first thought was:

Why is anyone giving us, of all people, honey?

The pantry contains a dozen or so jars of honey. There are more in the studio. And with another crush of full frames around the corner, we'll soon be living inside stacks of re-purposed jam and Mason jars. 

So there's always plenty of our own bees' honey. And then there are the souvenirs from other places we or our friends have visited, or the honey received for supporting a Kickstarter about a Pennsylvania beekeeper, just for example. Honey from all over.  It's like that thing where if you ever mention a penchant for chickens or tiny chairs, people start giving them to you for your birthday and Christmas -- the tiny chair becomes the go-to gift for you.  Except honey is better, way better.

A gift of honey really is super-special, since it's the place itself, in liquid form. You can eat Paris by the spoonful.

The two new mystery jars, as it turns out, came from a Jordanian beekeeper who was selling honey from a wagon, going door-to-door.  He lives and keeps his bees in the same neighborhood where Joe works.  His English is not the greatest, and he has a distressing habit of moistening his hand with his tongue and reaching for your chin. [which I Googled, and which does not appear to be a Jordanian cultural norm, but if anyone has insight, please send it.] And he's super-pushy, or so I'm told. Joe traded him some frames of capped honey for two jars of honey, all the time dodging the wet fingers reaching for his face.  Fortunately, honey has natural anti-bacterial properties, says the voice in my head.

As usual, over the course of some lunch in the garden with friends on Saturday, inevitably the subject of bees and honey came up. And out came the jars and spoons.  

When you consider that eating honey is like eating a place, ingesting what grows and blooms there, it's pretty remarkable to eat Kauai and the Pyrenees, to taste the differences between Tiburon and Flagstaff, Arizona.

Clockwise around the table we passed the crystallized nectar of Pittsburg, Paris, Argeles-Gazost, Tiburon, San Rafael, Kauai, Arizona, tasting each one, marveling at their differences, at the ones we particularly liked, and did not.

And the winner?

Hands down: the Jordanian beekeeper's honey.  The clearest, the smoothest, most redolent of Clover, the best.

The best for now, at least.  The big crush for this year is still ahead of us, and the jars of honey from other local beekeepers will start rolling in, traded for ours.  We and others will travel and bring home the flavor of places visited, and the taste-off will continue over here, every chance we get.  

Bring a spoon.  You're invited. ;>

XX