The Sound of Honey

It's very late at night, and I am making honey. While I work, my mind wanders ...

Over the course of the summer, the housemates have gotten a bit irritated at the level of disruption caused by honey-making in the kitchen, so now I do it late at night, when all the world has gone to bed. This is the way of things; that in your first summer, you will cause chaos, you will waste, things will get sticky, you will learn. Next summer, I hope, will be more efficient, less sticky.

As I inspect my super frames, and prepare them for uncapping, I think about honey ...

The level of waste seems tragic to me. Every inch left in the bottom of the extractor; every globule removed with the cappings, represents the entirety of a single bee's life and work. All that effort! They say that a single bee produces, over the entire course of its life, enough honey to fill up just one-twelfth of a teaspoon. Think then, when you take a bite of your honeyed toast, how many bees have worked to create this breakfast? They have flown a million flights, foraged ten million flowers, worked the long hours of every sunlit day, they have worked till their wings are torn and broken and they can fly no more. They die far from home, alone, to save their sisters the effort of clearing their body from the ever-clean hive.






















So when I try to scrape the wax cappings off carefully, shaving it very thin, I'm not greedy in trying to save every morsel, I'm thinking of every bee that contributed to it. The uncapping fork scrapes across the top; the frame is heavy, I'm engrossed in my work. It's mouthwatering to watch the shining honey emerge from under the dull cappings. It makes a sticky sound, squelching and juicy.

I pick up each frame by the end lug, and lower it carefully into the Honey Extractor, fitting it Just So. Slowly each frame is uncapped on both sides and positioned in place. I wash my hands, sticky already, and prepare for the easy part.

I glance up through the kitchen window; it's pitch dark outside and I long to open the door and bring in the fresh, clean night air. But I can't - the sweet, sweet smell will bring in every moth, every insect, every marauding creature, hungry for a taste. Keeping the door closed keeps the kitchen warm. When it's warm the honey flows ...

This golden liquid is so viscose, thick and runny. I take up my station, on the high seat, with my feet positioned on the handles of the extractor to keep it stationery. Although the nine frames of honey carry up to 30 or 40 lbs of weight, it's still not enough to keep the machine down once the centrifugal force begins.

I start to crank the handle very slowly; this big old machine that looks like a 1920's laundry mangle begins to come to life. I've learned from Guy that keeping the lid off doesn't necessarily allow the honey to fly all over the room, so I keep the two halves of the lid aside so I can look down and watch, fascinated, as the gathering momentum of the circle makes the frames fly round and begin to look a single rushing object.

















Now everything flows smoothly, the handle turns by itself almost, my body working the repetitive motion, the frames humming quietly and I begin to hear the honey coming. There is no sound quite like it; I will always know it now. The sticky flinging flick-flacking noise of honey being forced from each tiny cell in the comb and flying out to smack onto the sides of the barrel.

I let the handle go, and watch it whirl for a while. Then I reverse the motion, and listen for the sound of honey again. If you're lucky and careful, and you turn the handle wisely, you will have no sound of exploding frames. The wax foundation, especially when it's new, can break if the centrifugal forces are too strong and fast. That's when you hear the bang of a huge wad of wax and honey thwacking onto the side and sliding down into the bottom. A waste; more wanton waste; another lesson learned.

Eventually, I can extract no more. I wash my hands again, and lean down into the machine. I test the weight of a frame, and incredibly it feels completely light. It seems a miracle, this way of extracting.

In the bottom of the barrel, a thick messy particle-laden pool gathers. Honey!

First things first: I remove the frames and pack them carefully back into the super box. If I'm short of time the next day, I will simply sneak down, in the darkest of dark nights, to the hive and place the super back on top while the bees are dopey and sleepy. They will eat the honey and polish the wax cells and in 24 hours this super will be absolutely pristine, without a single drop left.

The first time I did this, all by myself, it worked like a dream. The second time, I did it with Guy holding the torch from a distance. Unfortunately a bee landed on him, he thought he'd get stung, he gave a yell and jerked his arm and lost the torch and everything went dark and I dropped the super and got stung three times and curses flew through the air. It was not, I admit, our finest moment. Those poor bees!

I'm back in the kitchen, lost in thought. I wash my hands again, for the millionth time, deep in stickiness. Now I must leave the honey to lie in the bottom of the barrel, settle for 24 hours. I sleep like the dead and dream of honey.

* * *

It is tomorrow night, late again, and it's time to bring the honey out of the barrel. I've placed the barrel on the high chair, and I have my amateur factory set-up on the go. This definitely is something that needs refining for next summer. It's clumsy, clunky, awkward and physically exhausting.

The barrel is perched on the high chair, with the tap peeking over the edge. A low chair faces it and on it, directly underneath the tap, I've placed a large clean open-topped plastic container inexpertly covered with a layer of cooking muslin. Just above that, tucked carefully under the barrel and positioned strategically between the tap and container, is a collander.

All is ready.

Taking a deep breath, I slowly and carefully open the tap cover. Breathlessly I watch as the thick golden viscose waterfall of honey begins to flow downwards, landing on the silver surface of the sieve, and filtering weakly through to fall onto the muslin, becoming a lake that finally, finally drips through into the container. It takes a long, long few minutes for that final filtration process to happen, as the weight of the honey on the cooking muslin finally forces the drops through. I wait in the silence of the night until I can finally hear the drip, drip, drip noise tapping onto the plastic surface.

Now it's a slow, agonising, tentative process. As the honey lands the particles of wax, bee bodies, pollen and debris block up the fine mesh, and every now and then I have to clear it with a spoon so the flow can continue. Then, as the honey lands on the muslin, I must check that the container is properly even so the lake of honey doesn't overflow the edges onto the chair and then the floor. I must check that the muslin doesn't stretch too much and end up trailing downwards into the honey right at the bottom.


Slow, agonising, sticky.

Completely and utterly engrossing.

After several painstaking hours, I come to the final pool in the bottom of the barrel. Now I must begin to angle the huge extractor, so honey continues to flow through the tap hole. Angling and angling, edging over and over, ever-closer to 90 degrees. It's big, and heavy and clumsy and awkward to hold and I strain as the thickness of the honey inches into the hole and down to where the collander is wobbling beneath it. Oh, I'm uncomfortable! And hot. And sweaty.

And so very, very tired.

Finally, it's done.

Wearily, I pack up three tubs of freshly double-filtered honey, too tired to carry on with bottling it. That must just wait for another tomorrow.

Another tomorrow also, to lug the huge extractor up to the bathroom and wash away the last of the debris. Every drop of unsalvageable honey going down the drain seems such a waste, a waste, a waste ....

Now the Honey Extractor waits, polite and quiet in a corner of the hallway, by the front door. Today, one of my fellow beekeepers will come to collect it, so that they too can hear the sound of the honey.

As for me, I am done for the summer. My honey is bottled and stored, and all I must do now is finish labelling and find a place to sell it on.

All this, so that you can have honey on your toast in the morning.

















For Ricardo (and Daniel)
With love
xx