Honey at any temperature is warm, and at any age is sweet, and at any stage of their shelf life is smooth. It is meant to be paired, to be used, as a sweetener for the bitter and the bland. Honey is sunshine, a warm hug, and the color gold all packed into a jar for people to put a tablespoon or two in their tea or spread on a short stack of pancakes.
Honey is the nickname my grandma would call me when she hugged me. I would look across the table from my chair in the middle of the Greenwich tearoom, my eyeline only a few inches above the light pink tablecloth. The fine China with an elegant flower pattern followed the curves of the white teacup and wrapped the edges of the matching saucer where the teacup sat. Her smile was as warm as her hands, textured with wrinkles from age but softened from her high-end floral scented hand cream, guided my small ones as I prepared my own cup of tea. She picked up the small but weighty spoon from beside my saucer, handing it to me.
“Here honey, take the spoon and put some honey into the cup, make sure to stir it in” she said moving the teaspoon of honey around in her own cup.
I watched her intently as she did it, the clinking of the spoon against the cup was all I could focus on. I wanted to be just like her, elegant and demure at every turn. I dipped my own spoon in the honey, the elegant way my grandma did it got lost in translation in my seven-year-old body as I tried to mimic the way my grandma stirred, the spoon clicking against the glass. My grandma started our tea-time conversation, asking me questions; sweet ones about school and my friends, the warm smile never leaving her lips. I could tell; she was almost as excited to be spending time with me as I was to be spending time with her. The honey was sweet, warming as it melted into the tea. “Good, Honey?” she asked.
