Friday, September 26, 2008

Let it Bee Local

Last night, with the help of our intrepid neighbor Dawn, we put labels on 144 bottles of honey. Not to cavil, but there are such a lot of labels. There is the Let it Bee Local Honey label, the one I love. There is the cautionary label warning against giving honey to infants less than one year. There is the label identifying the honey’s provenance (a Manhattan rooftop, that’s as specific as we can be, given the legal issues). There is the Unsafe at Any Speed label. There is the Pray to Saint Ambrose, patron of beekeepers, label. There is the nutrition facts label. There is the bar code. There is the Turn Right at the Apiary label.

However, lest you think it was all work and no play, while affixing labels we listened to the Kingston Trio (huh?), which was very satisfying, because Charlie on the MTA is one of the few songs I actually know the words to. (He will ride forever ‘neath the streets of Boston…)

And then today, expecting to ford a flooded Saw Mill Highway, I delivered all 8 cases to Murray’s Cheese store on Bleeker Street, our newest venue for Let it Bee and the first for Let it Bee Local Manhattan rooftop honey.

On the way home I had the opportunity to stare long and hard at the illuminated sign at 42nd street announcing the number of days before the Intrepid returns. 6 days. It seems just yesterday there was a grand fiasco when they tried to move the Intrepid away for repairs and it was stuck in the mud.
Before that I saw two unleashed, unaccompanied, perfectly white bull terriers standing on the sidewalk at 14th street and 7th Avenue waiting for the light to change. They crossed with the light and continued walking north. I should have stopped and at least looked at their collars. I should have done something about those two well-behaved but strangely alone dogs in the city. I should have overcome my irrational aversion to dogs with downwardly tapered snouts. But I kept driving, eager to be home before the next nor'easter. Those dogs may be in Washington Heights by now, far from their frantic owner, a solitary man in his forties who plays jazz piano and visits his mother every week at a Nursing Home upstate.

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