The Beekeeper of Monticello Boulevard lives around the corner from us. On the same block, actually. You could walk about half a mile to his house on the other side of the block or walk through our backyard, through our woods, through some other neighbors’ woods, through his woods, into his backyard, past the 20 or so white bee hive boxes, and up to his front door. He has a “Bee Wax for Sale” sign in front of his house year-around. I’ve never bought wax from him–don’t know what I’d use it for. The sign I wait for shows up in late summer and reads “Honey for Sale.”

The first time we bought honey from him was when the kid was maybe a two and a half. I chatted with the Beekeeper for a bit, and he let us wander into the backyard and get as close as we dared to the hives. He was born in Russia and has been keeping bees for more than 30 years. The first year, we bought one jar, which came home in the bottom of the kid’s red wagon. Her job was to hold on to the jar whenever we went over a bump.

I was never big on honey, but I had read that a good way to combat seasonal allergies is to take a teaspoonful of local honey each day. The idea being that since the bees are getting pollen from the very things making you sneeze, you can slowly vaccinate. I figured I couldn’t get any more local than bees who had been hanging around my own backyard. What I learned is that I was never a big honey fan because the only honey I had ever encountered was mass-produced stuff sold in the grocery store. This local honey was a revelation. It wasn’t as thick as the grocery store stuff and had a rich flavor, not just sweetness. (Kind of like the difference between salsa that that has flavor and salsa that just has heat.)

The first jar ran out long before the following summer. But now we were spoiled. Even pricey organic honey from the grocery store didn’t cut it. Oh, I’d put it in my chamomile tea, but it wasn’t the same as the local stuff. Now we wait for the Beekeeper of Monticello Boulevard to put out the “Honey for Sale” sign. Yesterday, when the kid and I were talking a walk, we saw it and cheered. We immediately rang the doorbell even though we had a bicycle, two dogs on a leash, and no money. We asked him to save three jars–two for us and one for my sister, who has also become addicted.

When we got the honey home yesterday, the kid, my husband and I all fell upon the first jar like crazed, ravenous Winnie-the-Poohs. It was exquisite. The kid just kept asking for another spoonful “all by itself.” All night long, my husband toasted sourdough bread and dribbled the honey on it. For breakfast, all my child has asked for is a banana cut up with honey on it. I just enjoyed an endless cup of chamomile tea with more honey than anyone in their right mind would add. Except I’m not in my right mind. I’m in the last throes of summer. The kid starts school in a week. Already, the mornings have the cool, damp feel of fall. I have two jars of summer to get me through the winter.