Like a chubby fisted little boy bearing dandelions, The Engineer brings his First Batch of Honey into The Dissenter’s Chapel & Snug where I sit stitching. Later on, I can tell everywhere he’s been – floors, chairs, doorknobs, countertops – by the stickiness.
Offering me a taste, he says proudly, “It doesn’t get more local than this.”
There’s a special piece of equipment, he tells me, that you can use to separate the honeycomb from the honey. “You’re in luck,” I tell him, “cause I’m in a makeshift mood.” And within minutes, I produce and donate some of my “special equipment” for the cause, and right now, even as I type, the honey makes its way through the cheesecloth separator that’s clipped to the rim of the bowl.
The Engineer, watching the honey slowly meander through the cheesecloth: I calculate we’ll need at least 30 quart jars.
The Artist: Though she wonders if a child’s teacup isn’t more like it, she says nary a word as she wipes down every single surface The Engineer has come in contact with since bringing the bowl of honey into the house. Not wanting to spoil The Engineer’s childlike excitement, she doesn’t shake her head or cluck her tongue. Not even on the inside.
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