A couple of Friday nights ago, I arrived home after a dangerous mix of beer and mojitos and sat on my deck with a friend, courting pain and suffering (slurping down gin and tonics).
I spied something sitting by the back door, which in the semi-dark sozzled-ness, I could neither identify nor get up to investigate.
When I opened the back door on Saturday morning, there it was: a mysterious pot of honey. A rather large mysterious pot of honey. A rather large mysterious kick-ass pot of honey.
I am in awe of these bees, for this is The Most Amazing Honey, with a subtle, round-mouthed sweetness that makes me want to give up coffee and convert to chai, it is THAT good.
So with super sleuthing prowess, I asked my landlord, who lives next door, about the honey. Ha! It was him! He keeps bees (not here, though that would be excellent for my potted garden).
I have been a bit wary of my landlord, as in not wanting to be TOO friendly, if you get my drift. Someone told me the gifting of honey is a Greek courting tradition. I googled it but couldn’t find anything compelling. But I shall throw caution to the wind and return the favour with some freshly baked sourdough. I on-gifted half the pot and am now extra conscious of keeping my supply lines open!