I have a well-documented thing for honey. A crush on honey, no, a deep-seated need for honey – so drippy and persistent that it rivals the fat yellow bear in the red shirt. My pairing of choice is with butter; any toast or crackers below are just a platform, and if propriety would let me do away with the base and just eat butter and honey, I would. And let’s be honest, I have. Maybe…once or twice. I do.
We have plenty of local beekeepers that provide everything from lavender to wildflower, but whatever the variety, I still must have the bear.
Precious, no? He is a regular on my counter, golden and waiting.
More toast, Marilyn? No thanks. Just had some.
Well. Just butter, then. No – no, I couldn’t.
What a kidder! Innocently plastic and well-meaning. Still – sometimes I wonder about my will to honey, once in a while, when it turns just a tad too quickly from request to demand. Much the way some words, words you’ve used all your life – words like welcome or cheese – suddenly look wrong. Chicken. Doorknob. If you fix long and hard enough, they swim out and back to focus, making you doubt they were ever right at all. Doubt me? Stare at the word doubt.
And there we are. One day, the things you take for granted, your dear basics like language and crackers and honey, might all at once look different. Are the things we love as sweet as they seem?
Oh, dear. Honey – or is it Hunny?