I’ve been AWOL for five months now.  My sincerest apologies to all who have tried to reach me without success.  The reason is singular – my complete immersion in Culinary School.

The good news:  my bees are flourishing!!  They’ve never been healthier!!  I’m not sure whether it’s because of the idyllic summer we’ve had in Ohio or the fact that I’ve left them alone to do their own bee thing.  Maybe it’s a combination of both. In any event, they’re in the best possible shape to enter the winter season.

The bad news:  my garden is a mess!  It’s amazing how quickly things will descend into rack and ruin if neglected for even a short period of time.  My neighbors have been incredibly tolerant and understanding.  Perhaps they understand that it’s more painful for me than it is for them!

I’ll give you a flavor of what the past months have been like for me. Then I’ll go back to posting about beekeeping, gardening and cooking with honey.  With some culinary anecdotes of course!

As some of you may know, I’ve been a corporate lawyer for many years.  About five years ago, I added “writer” and “consultant” to my list of job titles.

In 2012 I added “blogger” to my list.  So how did I end up as “Culinary Student”?

Probably because the best way to motivate me is to tell me I can’t do something.  I’ve always been that way.  It’s the reason I became a lawyer.

There were other factors too. I’ve always loved to cook.  I come from a family of great cooks, both self-taught and professionally trained.  I’m one of those people who owns hundreds of cookbooks and reads them for fun.

And then my best friend died unexpectedly in April.  I was devastated. I was desperate to find something to get myself out of my head and distract me from my grief.

In any event, shortly before the summer semester started in May, I found myself enrolling in Culinary School.

In truth, I didn’t know whether I just wanted to take a few classes or do something more.  I figured taking cooking classes would be fun, keep me busy, and would help me with my writing.  Beyond that, I was clueless.

It was apparent to my instructors that I hadn’t thought the whole Culinary School thing through. I had no idea what school was like. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my training.

The Administration tactfully suggested that I might not be willing or able to handle the six hour cooking labs and other requirements of the program.  That’s when my motivation kicked in.  I immediately became sure I wanted to pursue a Culinary Arts Degree.  Hey, I might even get a Pastry Arts Degree while I was at it!

The first three weeks of school took their physical toll on me, big time.  I was in good shape when I started, but I wasn’t used to being on my feet cooking for five or six hours at a pop.  I hurt all over.  I started carrying a plastic baggie full of Advil around in the pocket of my chefs’ pants.

And then there was my age. I was older than everyone, including my instructors.  My fellow students avoided me, and I was frequently mistaken for a faculty member.

I hated it.

Then, around week four, something happened.  I got used to being on my feet for so long. I realized I was really good at professional level cooking.  I stopped caring what people thought of me.  I looked forward to my classes.  I began to think the whole Culinary School thing might work out for me after all!

One thing I never doubted was what type of food I wanted to cook.  I wanted to prepare glorious, adventurous food made from fresh local and seasonal ingredients.  That meant working at an independently owned, fine dining restaurant.

In Cincinnati, there are many exciting new fine dining restaurants in the Over the Rhine area downtown.  In June, I was lucky to find an apprentice position in one of them.  Thus began my true journey…

That’s enough for tonight, I think.  I hope I’ve left you anxious to hear more!!

I’ve missed you all, and hope you’ve missed me a little too.

More tomorrow….

Deb

This is an earlier post which gives some background on the tradition of “telling the bees.”

Until the late 19th century, beekeeping was almost exclusively a family affair.  It was common for households to keep at least two or three hives, and bees were considered valuable members of the family.

It was a common belief that bees could understand what was said and done around them, and they were often treated as having human emotions. As a result, families were careful to inform the bees of important  family events such as marriages, births and deaths. This custom became known as  “telling the bees.”

“Telling the bees” was done in various ways,  including tapping the hive with a key, whispering the news to the bees, and leaving an appropriate gift – a piece of wedding cake or some other refreshment – at the entrance of the hive. It was also customary to drape the hives with black crepe or wool.

It was feared that if the bees were not properly informed, they would die or desert the family. This custom was so prevalent that it was celebrated in 19th century literature and art.

British artist Charles Napier Hemy painted the poignant Telling The Bees.

Telling the Bees

American Transcendentalist poet John Greenleaf Whittier wrote a poem of the same name.

Telling The Bees

Here is the place; right over the hill
Runs the path I took;
You can see the gap in the old wall still,
And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.

There is the house, with the gate red-barred,
And the poplars tall;
And the barn’s brown length, and the cattle-yard,
And the white horns tossing above the wall.

There are the beehives ranged in the sun;
And down by the brink
Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o’errun,
Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.

A year has gone, as the tortoise goes,
Heavy and slow;
And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows,
And the same brook sings of a year ago.

There ‘s the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze;
And the June sun warm
Tangles his wings of fire in the trees,
Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.

I mind me how with a lover’s care
From my Sunday coat
I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair,
And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.

Since we parted, a month had passed,–
To love, a year;
Down through the beeches I looked at last
On the little red gate and the well-sweep near.

I can see it all now,–the slantwise rain
Of light through the leaves,
The sundown’s blaze on her window-pane,
The bloom of her roses under the eaves.

Just the same as a month before,–
The house and the trees,
The barn’s brown gable, the vine by the door,–
Nothing changed but the hives of bees.

Before them, under the garden wall,
Forward and back,
Went drearily singing the chore-girl small,
Draping each hive with a shred of black.

Trembling, I listened: the summer sun
Had the chill of snow;
For I knew she was telling the bees of one
Gone on the journey we all must go!

Then I said to myself, “My Mary weeps
For the dead to-day:
Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps
The fret and the pain of his age away.”

But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill,
With his cane to his chin,
The old man sat; and the chore-girl still
Sung to the bees stealing out and in.

And the song she was singing ever since
In my ear sounds on:–
“Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!
Mistress Mary is dead and gone!”

Many modern beekeepers will understand their ancestors’ desire to treat their winged charges with love and respect.  I know I’ve started talking to my bees. They seem to like it.