clover flower produces the sweet golden honey most commonly sold on supermarket shelves.
“Infinitely more rare, though sweeter by far than any store-bought honey, is that which is made from the blooms of the eucalyptus tree,” I said. Detective Grayson said he had never heard of any such variety, and I told him I was not surprised.
“These magnificent trees will bloom branch by branch from January until July,” I told the detective, “and every warm day, for the duration of their flowering season, the most intrepid of my field bees will work with special diligence to harvest the sweet eucalyptus nectar that they will in turn convert into the most savory honey I have ever tasted.”
I have only rarely sampled this liquid jewel, however, as my bees seem to favor it above all honeys they produce and so hoard it most exclusively to nurture their brood.
A cool breeze had begun to blow as we spoke, and it set the old eucalyptus trees to creak and rustle almost on cue as I enumerated for Detective Grayson other peculiarities of honey production.
“Did you know, Detective, that honey is classified by the flower from which it is produced. It is further distinguished by color, clarity, and aroma.”
“Can’t say that I did,” he replied.
“I recall a lovely little wildflower that flourished untended in the fields just north of our ranch when I was a boy. It brought forth a strongly flavored honey the color of Chinese jade.”
“Green honey?” he said.
“Nearly,” I said. Depending on the light, this honey could also resemble pond water reflecting the afternoon sunlight, or passing storm clouds, or, it suddenly occurred to me, Detective Grayson’s eyes.
“What kind of flowers were they?”
“Sadly, I didn’t think to learn their name,” I replied. “I was just a boy, after all, and I assumed they’d always be there for the picking.”
I recounted for the detective how after the day’s chores were done I used to enjoy evening walks through the old orange and avocado groves that filled in the patchwork of fields and feed stores between the roads and railways that once upon a time surrounded my family’s home.
“Summer nights aren’t nearly as fragrant now,” I said.
“I know what you mean,” Detective Grayson said. “Heck, even thirty years ago, when the wife and I bought our first house—it wasn’t far from here, by the way—there were still plenty of orange groves, and strawberry fields, and nice big yards and schools and parks and little corner grocery stores where parents didn’t have to worry their tails off just to send their kids out to buy a quart of milk.”
“Times have certainly changed,” I agreed. And indeed I was so engaged in our conversation that I had forgotten all about the manila envelope the detective had been gripping so unobtrusively under his arm until he slipped it out and glanced back toward my unlit house that by this time sat swaddled in evening shadows.
“Kids today have no idea how nice this neighborhood used to be,” he said, running his stout fingers along the edge of the envelope. “Now there’s nothing but apartment houses and strip malls and gas stations everywhere you look. It’s a damn shame, if you’ll pardon my French.”
I thought for a moment that I might confess to the good detective that I wasn’t altogether sorry that the old stands of avocado trees—which had been nearly as common as the orange groves once were—had likewise disappeared. Honey made from avocado blossoms is a deep dark brown and thick as tar. So dark and thick, in fact, that although the flavor is sweet as any other honey my bees produce, its pitchlike appearance dissuades most people of its palatability. Even I found it nearly impossible to sell.
“Yes, it was lovely here once upon a time,” I said. I pulled a red kerchief from my pant pocket and wiped my brow to signal the end of another good day’s work. By this time, we had made our way back to the rear of my
“Infinitely more rare, though sweeter by far than any store-bought honey, is that which is made from the blooms of the eucalyptus tree,” I said. Detective Grayson said he had never heard of any such variety, and I told him I was not surprised.
“These magnificent trees will bloom branch by branch from January until July,” I told the detective, “and every warm day, for the duration of their flowering season, the most intrepid of my field bees will work with special diligence to harvest the sweet eucalyptus nectar that they will in turn convert into the most savory honey I have ever tasted.”
I have only rarely sampled this liquid jewel, however, as my bees seem to favor it above all honeys they produce and so hoard it most exclusively to nurture their brood.
A cool breeze had begun to blow as we spoke, and it set the old eucalyptus trees to creak and rustle almost on cue as I enumerated for Detective Grayson other peculiarities of honey production.
“Did you know, Detective, that honey is classified by the flower from which it is produced. It is further distinguished by color, clarity, and aroma.”
“Can’t say that I did,” he replied.
“I recall a lovely little wildflower that flourished untended in the fields just north of our ranch when I was a boy. It brought forth a strongly flavored honey the color of Chinese jade.”
“Green honey?” he said.
“Nearly,” I said. Depending on the light, this honey could also resemble pond water reflecting the afternoon sunlight, or passing storm clouds, or, it suddenly occurred to me, Detective Grayson’s eyes.
“What kind of flowers were they?”
“Sadly, I didn’t think to learn their name,” I replied. “I was just a boy, after all, and I assumed they’d always be there for the picking.”
I recounted for the detective how after the day’s chores were done I used to enjoy evening walks through the old orange and avocado groves that filled in the patchwork of fields and feed stores between the roads and railways that once upon a time surrounded my family’s home.
“Summer nights aren’t nearly as fragrant now,” I said.
“I know what you mean,” Detective Grayson said. “Heck, even thirty years ago, when the wife and I bought our first house—it wasn’t far from here, by the way—there were still plenty of orange groves, and strawberry fields, and nice big yards and schools and parks and little corner grocery stores where parents didn’t have to worry their tails off just to send their kids out to buy a quart of milk.”
“Times have certainly changed,” I agreed. And indeed I was so engaged in our conversation that I had forgotten all about the manila envelope the detective had been gripping so unobtrusively under his arm until he slipped it out and glanced back toward my unlit house that by this time sat swaddled in evening shadows.
“Kids today have no idea how nice this neighborhood used to be,” he said, running his stout fingers along the edge of the envelope. “Now there’s nothing but apartment houses and strip malls and gas stations everywhere you look. It’s a damn shame, if you’ll pardon my French.”
I thought for a moment that I might confess to the good detective that I wasn’t altogether sorry that the old stands of avocado trees—which had been nearly as common as the orange groves once were—had likewise disappeared. Honey made from avocado blossoms is a deep dark brown and thick as tar. So dark and thick, in fact, that although the flavor is sweet as any other honey my bees produce, its pitchlike appearance dissuades most people of its palatability. Even I found it nearly impossible to sell.
“Yes, it was lovely here once upon a time,” I said. I pulled a red kerchief from my pant pocket and wiped my brow to signal the end of another good day’s work. By this time, we had made our way back to the rear of my
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