Our reader is piqued:
How exactly does that honey spoon work?
Imagine: you dip the spoon, like any of its cousins, into the blessed amber fluid, and then transfer the viscous nutrients to the waiting biscuit (or other, lesser, vessel). Now comes the moment that leaves the honey spoon’s cousins bereft of utility, with a ghastly exception: what to do with the precious, drippy remnants clinging forlornly to the bowl of the instrument? The cousins may only be plunged into the jar, which, if it is deep enough, will foul the handle of the spoon with our beloved liquid, which, despite our devotions, are repulsive when attached to the handle of the implement of transportation.
At this juncture, the topology of the honey spoon leaps into spectacular focus. The crook unique to its construction performs a singular function: to secure the spoon upon the lip of the honey storing vessel, such that the honey will return to its sanctuary; and, further, permitting safe transport of the honey jar from celebrant to celebrant. So long as the storage vessel’s lip is not of untoward width, the honey spoon enjoys success.
Another reader comments:
Nothing but local honey for me. Our city just changed an ordinance so now we can have beehives in our yards. Finally! Two people voted against because “people might get stung.” I guess they’ve never been outside.
Sadly, a few people do suffer from allergies to bee stings, such as my brother-in-law (and probably their kids). According to Healthline,
Approximately 40 people per year die in the U.S. because of allergic reactions to bee stings. ?
Yes, the question mark does exist in the reference.
