Golden Honey Jars on a Sunny Counter in Sweetwater

shed at half past four smelled of stale wax and cold iron. David waited by the wood table, holding a clear glass of cold well water he had drawn from the pump outside.

I took a jar of the new autumn batch and dipped a long wooden spoon into the pale, runny liquid.

“If it is real honey, it should sink to the bottom in a solid lump,” I said.

“And if it continue reading …