Ben and Glynnis Lanier's bees work the tupelo trees that grow on the swampy edges of the Chipola and Apalachicola rivers of northwest Florida, not so far from Alabama and Georgia. Ben, a third generation honey man, still has a picture of the steamboat used for harvesting in his grandfather’s day, and after that, the barge in his father’s day. His offices are in the family home, the same one where his daddy, LLLanier Jr., was born in 1923.
“Very few people know how to separate the honey, it’s a lost art,” says Ben in a strong regional drawl, his voice the verbal equivalent of a bear hug. “Some label it tupelo when it’s mixed with other kinds, some even mix corn syrup in it, though it’s illegal. I don't. I watch the tree, when the blossom is the size of a pencil eraser, I clean off my hives. Takes a week to clean out the old pollen and honey. Then I let the bees work the tupelo tree for two weeks, so the honey I get is pure tupelo. “
Every April 20, give or take a day, the trees produce little white blooms with a sunburst of white hairs sprouting from their centers. They are gone by the second week in May. Their nectar results in a warm, light golden honey with a greenish cast and delicate flavor that falls on the back of the tongue with a floral, almost peachy overtone. It is not heated or pasteurized, which would destroy its nutritional value. It doesn’t need to be since it is unusually high in levulose, a kind of natural sugar that keeps it clear and non-granulating. At the top of the jar little flecks of beeswax and pollen gather.
Here in the U.S. we consume over a pound of honey per capita, per year. That makes an average of 210 million pounds, most of it commercially produced, by 2.4 million colonies of very busy bees. Only a handful of artisans remain, farmers that make specialized local honeys and don't cut or blend them. These folks, like many small-yield producers, face a few obstacles in maintaining the integrity of their goods.
Aside from rainfall fluctuations, competition from cheaper, adulterated honey, crossover poisons from nearby farms, and the spread of aggressive Africanized bees, the entire industry has battled a severe plague of poison-resistant mites over the last decade. A huge percentage of hives have been wiped out, putting many apiaries out of business. “Nine-tenths of the bees in the United States are gone in the last ten years,” claims Ben. ” I’m down to 600 from 1000, and I’ve had as many as 1500. These mites are just indestructible. They look like crabs, with a shell on them, and they’re big proportionately for the bee. It’d be like if you had a 5-pound parasite attached to your body, sucking out all the juices.”
All the more reason to support independent, traditional farmers like the Lanier's.
Beekeeping methods haven’t changed much in the last hundred or so years, perhaps even the last few thousand. Ben still uses smoke to clear the bees out of their hives so he can get the honey. Then he gathers it and clears it. After the flows, the bees are moved, en masse, to where they can find other sources of pollen for the rest of the year.
“One thing, they don’t make honey for you, they make it for themselves,” Ben says. “So I take them down toward the beach and let them keep the honey they make the rest of the summer.” When asked if he thinks of them as friends, or perhaps even a kind of pet, he perks up. “Well, sure I do! You don’t want to see ‘em die, you’d like to see them flourish.”
In spite of the mites, and a disastrous lack of rainfall last year the Lanier's are determined to stay in business. ““I’m 47 and about wore out,” claims Ben. "But I love what I do, if I didn’t I wouldn’t do it,” Ben says. “I’m independent, my own boss, and I’m getting plenty to eat, got gas in my car.”
Glynnis didn't grow up in the business, but also seems fond of the bees. At least she's not shy around them. “You can’t have fear of bees around here, ‘cause you are going to get stung,” she states matter-of-factly. “But I’ve always been an outdoorsy tomboy type, never was afraid of them. It’s a struggle, like any kind of farm,” she says. “But Ben loves to do it, and we have a great product, and people say don’t stop.”
I too think they have a great product, and have been using it ever since my friend Virginia sent me a 5 pound jar several years ago. Beside its obvious uses, I add it to marinades and barbecue sauces instead of brown sugar, and use it in cocktails instead of the simple syrup usually called for. My favorite is a Side Car, made with fresh squeezed lemon juice, tupelo honey, brandy and orange liqueur.
They sell to individuals and retailers, through a little storefront of their own in Wewahitchka and also through mail order. This is a boutique sized affair -- they have two regular employees and during the honey flow hire another five or six. Still, they avoid raising prices whenever possible. It's lovely stuff - you can get to their website through the link on this page under "food purveyors" or at 850.639.2371.
Wensleydale is a verdant area inYorkshire, the North of England, where the use of agricultural chemicals is restricted. Pastures sprout from earth rich in limestone and the cows graze naturally, free and happy. What results from their milk is traditional firm white cheese based on a recipe dating back to 11th century Cistercian monks. Tart, nutty, creamy and crumbly at the same time, it bears some similarity to mild white cheddar. It’s traditionally eaten on top of apple pie, a dessert combination found in the U.K. and reinvented in Canada as Apple Pie & Cheddar.
The cheese is produced by Wensleydale Creamery, who have recently packed it up with a picture of their biggest fan and his wise dog. Wallace & Gromit Wensleydale can be ordered online from www.cheesesupply.com and goes for about $23 a pound. Much cheaper than a trip to the moon.
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