Open Writing

Last week during my kitchen cleaning project I found a jar of honey that had crystallized and not fancying crunchy honey, I dug a hole in the garden and buried the sticky stuff. Later in the day I noticed a flurry of activity on the garden where the honey was buried. Curious, I went to investigate.

The black ants had found the honey and intoxicated themselves on the sweet liquor. They stumbled about climbing over each other in their effort to return to their nest. Only a few made it back as most were gobbled up by the geckos, skinks and a large blue tongue lizard who lined up for a free lunch.

The sight of the bumbling ants reminded me of another honey incident involving my friend Fiona. Fiona lived in a large three story house on a hill overlooking the Auckland harbour and I would travel to visit her two or three times a year. Fiona loved fine things. Her home was full of beautiful antiques and valuable original art works most of which were stacked against unfinished walls. Her husband, Leo was, well... eccentric. Always bursting with new plans and money making ideas.

The main living rooms of their home remained in a state of constant renovation for more than a decade. Wires awaiting light fittings poked out of walls that were neither painted nor papered. A chimney was removed and a large hole surrounded by a barrier of bent-wood chairs remained in the middle of the living room floor for years. And into this chaos, Leo introduced the honey from his bee hives.

I arrived at Fiona’s the next day to find the house abuzz with honey bees. They filled the air and droned on the windows. They buzzed about my head and caught in my hair as I picked my way through the living area toward the kitchen, stepping with care across the floor where more bees with useless wings struggled to crawl free from numerous small puddles of honey.

In the one-day-to-be dining room the magnificent kauri table was covered with newspaper, a dozen frames of honey comb and an old wringer. A forty-four gallon drum half full of honey stood in the middle of the floor and every surface in the kitchen supported an assortment of pots, bowls and jugs containing honey each with a crust of living buzzing but docile, honey bees.

Over a cup of tea, Fiona tearfully explained that Leo, too mean to buy a proper spinner that would separate the honey from the wax, had made his own, using the forty-four gallon drum with an old washing machine wringer inserted vertically and spun at speed by hand. Then, having tired of the effort required, he packed a bag and left on a three day trip to sort out some other problem leaving Fiona to finish separating the honey and deal with the mess.

My first reaction was for Fiona and I to take a seven day trip somewhere and leave Leo to sort out the shambles. But my friend was a honey of another kind. She loved her man, warts and all, and that was how I came to hire a professional spinner.

This helpful young man cleared the bees from the house and told us funny stories as we worked together, filling jar after jar of beautiful golden honey.

After everything was put away and we had scrubbed the floor clean we made a large pot of tea and piles of toast.

‘Do you want honey on your toast?’

‘NO!! Pass the marmalade please.’