Honey Bee Suite » varietal honey

Honey bee forage: black locust

Rusty — Sat, 28 Apr 2012 16:29:23 +0000

The black locust tree, Robinia pseudoacacia, is famous for producing a fruity and fragrant honey that ranges from water white to lemon yellow to yellowish green. A batch of monofloral black locust honey with little cross-contamination from other flowers can be as clear as a glass jar. The honey is high in fructose so it can be stored for long periods without crystallizing.

The black locust tree is native to eastern and southeastern North America, but has spread throughout the United States and much of Canada. A member of the Fabaceae (pea family), the tree has nodules of nitrogen-fixing bacteria on its roots which make it an excellent species for re-vegetating poor or damaged soils. In addition, its tolerance for low pH has made the tree useful for strip-mine reclamation sites.

Black locust grows quickly and averages 40-70 feet tall at maturity. It is often planted as a source of firewood, not only because of its fast growth but because the wood burns very hot. Although the tree does not tolerate shade or extreme cold, it grows well in a variety of moisture, fertility, and slope conditions.

Although it is considered a major honey plant in the eastern U.S., the black locust does not always produce a crop of honey. Nectar flow is very dependent on local weather conditions and some years the flowers yield little or no nectar at all. Some areas of the country report good crops once in every five years, but the frequency varies with the location.

Even when the flow is good, the flowering period is short. The flowers, which bloom in long, white racemes, open sometime between April and June for about ten days. During the rest of the year the trees are excellent habitat for invertebrates, birds, bats and other small mammals.

Nancy, a reader from Shady Grove Farm in Kentucky, has been enticing me with delectable descriptions of her current black locust flow. Below is a photo she sent of a tree in full bloom.

A final note: The black locust should not be confused with the honey locust, Gleditsia triacanthos. Ironically, the honey locust produces very little—if any—honey. The tree was nicknamed “honey locust” because of the sweet pulp which was used for food by some of the North American tribes.

Rusty
HoneyBeeSuite

Black locust tree at Shady Grove Farm, Kentucky.

Is tree honey slow to granulate?

Rusty — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 18:29:09 +0000

Recently, someone mentioned that honey from trees is much slower to granulate than honey from other sources. I had never heard this before and it intrigued me. I was fascinated because my own honey never granulates—at least I’ve never seen it granulate—and I have some that is over seven years old. I know my honey comes largely from tree nectar, but I never made the connection.

Honey granulates when the nectar is high in glucose and low in fructose. The more fructose the nectar contains, the less likely the honey is to granulate. I wondered if tree nectar naturally has more fructose. So I decided to informally research this claim to see how true it is.

What I found is kind of a mess. Nearly everyone agrees on the granulation rate of certain species. For example, many folks assert that honey from tupelo, black locust, gallberry, black sage, sourwood, avocado, and heather hardly ever granulates. This is true. On the other hand, honey from aster, clover, oilseed rape, alfalfa, cotton, blueberry, mangrove, and star thistle granulates quickly.

Most on the “never granulates” list are trees, and most on the “quick to granulate” list are not. But the gray areas are immense. I would say gallberry, black sage, and heather are shrubs—not exactly trees. But so are blueberry and cranberry. A mangrove can be a tree or a shrub. So although trees and shrubs seem to have many characteristics in common, nectar composition is not one of them.

Even more confusing: I found raspberry, cranberry, blackberry, sunflower, and fireweed on both “quick to granulate” and “slow to granulate” lists. The different experience by different people is probably the result of the nectar being mixed with other nectars in their local area—something which can give the honey very different characteristics. A pure sample would probably result in a different experience. For example, given it is in the aster family, I would imagine that pure sunflower honey would be very quick to granulate.

Others on the “slow to granulate” list were yellow box (bush), borage (herb), milkweed (herb) and grape (woody vine). On the “quick to granulate” list were orange blossom (tree), dandelion (herb), mesquite (shrub ), apple (tree), blue curl (evergreen herb), and rosemary (woody perennial). My own non-granulating honey comes mostly from maple, bitter cherry, cascara, American holly, salal, snowberry, and blackberry—which are trees, shrubs, and woody vines.

It’s hard to conclude much from this brief summary, but I would say that if your honey comes chiefly from trees you have a better chance of getting slow-to-granulate honey than if it comes mostly from annuals, herbaceous perennials, or vines. But once again, nature has proven she doesn’t believe in absolutes.

Rusty
HoneyBeeSuite

Tupelo trees in Arkansas. Flickr photo by Linda Tanner.

Carrot honey . . . really!

Rusty — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 22:27:59 +0000

Carrot honey is indeed unusual—unusual because domesticated carrots, Daucus carota, are a biennial crop that develop their famous taproots during the first summer of growth. When you want to grow a carrot, you buy a seed, plant it, harvest the carrot two or three months later, and never see a carrot flower. So how do you get carrot honey?

To get carrot honey you have to find a seed grower—a farmer who grows carrots for the express purpose of harvesting their seeds at the end of the plant’s second year of life. And what better place to find a seed farmer than in Oregon?

Oregon is famous for seed production. The Willamette Valley produces most of the grass seed grown in the United States, as well as seeds for many vegetables and herbs. Other parts of Oregon also grow seed, and the carrot honey I tasted came from Madras, an agricultural community in central Oregon. I’m told that carrot seed is not grown in the Willamette Valley because the crop tends to out-cross freely with wild carrot (Queen Anne’s Lace), a plant that is plentiful in that local area.

Although carrots are readily pollinated by wild insects including bees, wasps, and various flies, vast acreages of carrot flowers need the help of honey bees or mason bees to get a reliable seed set. The bonus for the beekeeper is a crop of rare honey.

Carrot honey has a dark amber color with an aroma reminiscent of chocolate. The taste is strong with a bite to it—a sharp spike in an otherwise earthy, caramel flavor. I also detected a “grassy” aftertaste, not quite like foraging on a meadow, but something close to that. This honey would be intriguing in any recipe where you want the taste of the honey to shine through. It would also complement a balsamic vinegar and olive oil dressing. But even if you prefer your honey straight up, don’t miss this one; it is a different experience and a must-try for your life list.

Since I was tasting while writing, I’m now seriously stuck to the keyboard—a sweet occupational hazard. While I clean up this mess you should consider giving carrot honey a try. My sample came from Flying Bee Ranch in Salem, Oregon.

Rusty
HoneyBeeSuite.com

The wild carrot is closely related to the cultivated one. Photo by Vera Buhl.

Flying Bee Ranch gets a soaring A

Rusty — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 23:00:49 +0000

Okay, here’s an admission: I used to moonlight as a secret shopper. I received a monthly list of fast food restaurants, items to buy, and forms to fill out. I went to these establishments and bought the food, checked the restrooms, looked under the tables, and counted my change. I returned an item to the counter and said it wasn’t what I ordered . . . although it actually was. How was I treated? Was the staff helpful or rude? Was the problem resolved? Then I examined the food: Was it presented well? Served at the proper temperature? Did it smell right? Thank heavens, I didn’t have to eat it.

But somehow I never lost the secret shopper mentality, and every time I order some bee-related product, I strip the HBS signature from my name and use an alternate e-mail address. I like to see what the service and products are really like. Fun, huh?

Well, one day before Christmas I was in the mood for an obscure varietal honey. I clicked around until I stumbled on the Flying Bee Ranch in Salem, Oregon—an apiary with a wondrous assortment of varietal honeys. Since my home is already inundated with honey, I had to select carefully. But omg such decisions! There was meadowfoam, lavender, pumpkin, carrot blossom, white sage, fireweed, and baby’s breath among others.

Since my degree in agronomic crops came from OSU, I am familiar with the Willamette Valley and the astonishing assortment of seeds and vegetables grown there. There’s a special place in my heart for the Valley, so I went ahead and placed an order.

Flying Bee Ranch does not have a secure website, so you place your order by e-mail and they reply and finalize the order amount, shipping costs, and payment method. This is typical for small establishments, but what was not typical was the speed of their reply. Not only was it fast, but everything cost less than their already reasonable listings—including the postage. They explained that the postage was less due to my close proximity to them, still, they could have easily collected the whole thing and I would not have known the difference.

They sent me a delivery confirmation and the package arrived exactly when they said it would. That’s just the beginning. The package was clearly addressed, perfectly wrapped, and even the labels were glued on straight. (I can tell these people take good care of their bees because they are meticulous about the details.) Inside the box, along with the honey, I found a hand-written thank-you note, a little medallion that reads, “Have a honey of a day,” and a free sample of 14 honey stix. I was just blown away.

In a later post I will write about the honey and the Willamette Valley. In the meantime, treat yourself to a rare varietal from these people. I notice some varieties are sold out for now, but many are still available. And then there’s always next season and the possibility of parsnip honey—something else to add to my wishlist!

Rusty
HoneyBeeSuite.com

Willamette Valley View. Flickr photo by Don Hankins.

Wednesday wordphile: terroir

Rusty — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 16:29:54 +0000

Foodies are familiar with the term “terroir” especially as it relates to wine, coffee, tea, olive oil, and even cheese. The term comes from the French and literally means “land.” The idea here is that the special physical characteristics of the place where an agricultural item is grown affect the way it tastes. These unique environments provide the food with a “sense of place” that is different from the same food grown in a different region.

As varietal honeys began to take their place in gourmet kitchens around the world, more and more began to be labeled with their terroir. For example, the label on a bottle of cat claw honey (Acacia greggii) may read something like, “produced in the poor, dry soils along southern Arizona’s desert arroyos.” Presumably the cat claw grown along an Arizona desert arroyo (a dry creek bed or wash) will produce a slightly different flavor of nectar than the cat claw grown, say, along a California desert arroyo.

The physical characteristics of a growing area may include the climate, rainfall pattern, soil type, topography, and geology. The soil is particularly important because each local soil contains different minerals, retains different amounts of moisture, has a different pH, and supports different microorganisms. All of these characteristics affect the plant communities–the type and number of plants that will grow in the immediate area–as well as the flavors of those plants. The surrounding community of plants can greatly affect the taste of honey, depending on how much of their nectar makes its way into the varietal honey.

All of this helps to explain why one jar of honey can taste very different from another, even when it’s derived from the same species of flower. It’s one of many factors that give varietal honeys their charm, and one of the reasons they command a higher price than blended honeys of multiple origin.

Rusty

HoneyBeeSuite.com

Tamarisk honey: a dark secret

Rusty — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 19:36:09 +0000

Tamarisk, also known as saltcedar, is one of those plants beloved by beekeepers and reviled by nearly everyone else. Governments and conservation groups spend untold dollars digging, pulling, and poisoning it, as well as searching for predators and diseases that might wipe it out. But still it persists and I doubt we will ever be rid of it.

Like many invasive species, tamarisk was originally brought to this country as an ornamental plant. A deciduous shrub or small tree, it grows from 5 to 30 feet tall, and can form dense monotypic thickets. The pale pink to white flowers bloom from spring until fall, thereby adding color to a landscape that may seem barren in the dry depths of summer.

The genus Tamarix belongs to the family Tamaricaceae. The entire family, which consists of several genera, is native to Eurasia and Africa. The problematic species of Tamarix have several characteristics that have allowed them to spread along the drainages of the Colorado River, the Rio Grande, and into areas of the Grand Canyon. Since its introduction in about 1805, the genus Tarmarix has invaded roughly two million acres in the U.S.

The deep roots of the tamarisk tap into water tables far below the surface, allowing the plant to thrive in dry desert climates. Conversely, these same roots anchor the plant so firmly it can withstand flooding of up to 70 days. And as the nickname “saltcedar” suggests, it is extremely tolerant to salty soils—a characteristic that allows it to out-compete native species such as cottonwood and willow, especially along stream banks. In addition, tamarisks absorb large amounts of water, diverting moisture from the more shallow-rooted natives.

But to beekeepers the tamarisk is a miracle, providing vast acreages of forage during times when nothing else is available. The small flowers are reliant on insect pollinators and so produce copious nectar and pollen to attract them. In the past tamarisk honey was considered primarily “bee feed”—honey to be left on the hive for overwintering the colonies. But the plight of honey bees across the globe has rekindled a curiosity in varietal honeys—including tamarisk.

Several weeks ago I decided I had to try a sample, especially after I saw pictures and read the description. Being a fan of dark honeys—the darker, the better—I knew I would like it. I was not disappointed. I purchased the honey from Grandpa’s Gourmet Honey in Alamosa, Colorado and it arrived looking as dark and stormy as buckwheat honey and smelling nearly the same.

The tasting notes that arrived with the bottle promised “aromas of dark beer, molasses, soy sauce, hickory and pine.” What I tasted was slightly different—malt and molasses topped with overtones of horehound and citrus—and not excessively sweet. It had a lingering, smoky, slightly bitter aftertaste—not unpleasant but different from other honeys I’ve sampled.

Grandpa’s Gourmet suggests pairing it with a strong cheese, such as blue, and I’m sure that will be perfect. In the meantime I’m still at the eat-it-with-a spoon phase and savoring every moment. And after I get past the tamarisk-and-cheese phase, I will move on to this beguiling recipe I found on the Backyard Bee Hive Blog: Tamarisk Honey Crème Brûlée. Sounds like yum.

Rusty

HoneyBeeSuite.com

Tamarisk in bloom at Grapevine, Arizona. Flickr photo by cogdogblog.

What about the other 125 species of maple?

Rusty — Wed, 05 Oct 2011 15:15:06 +0000

Since I wrote about bigleaf maple honey, several people have asked if other maple species produce honey. I dug around a bit and found that most maples are excellent producers of both nectar and pollen. However, they bloom very early in the spring–generally from February to April–and most of the time the weather is just too cold or too wet for the honey bees to collect much. What they do collect is often consumed immediately in order to build comb and raise brood for spring.

So it seems that any harvestable maple honey is a hit or miss, weather dependent kind of thing . . . but some species are more reliable than others.

Here in North America several sources named red maple (Acer rubrum) , sometimes called swamp maple, as producing an occasional honey crop. Likewise, sugar maples (A. saccharum) and silver maples (A. saccharinum) are extremely attractive to honey bees and may, on occasion, produce a harvestable crop.

Vine maple (A. circinatum) grows out here in the same region as the bigleaf maples (A. macrophyllum). John Lovell in his book Honey Plants of North America (1926) writes of vine maple, “The honey has a fine flavor and is white or amber-colored with a faint pinkish tinge.”

So if you want a taste of maple, you may have to raid a brood box as I described earlier. Don’t take so much that you hurt your spring build-up and be careful not to chill your brood in the process. Still, if you can swing it, it is definitely worth the effort.

Rusty

HoneyBeeSuite.com

Honey bee on red maple flower. Photo courtesy of Scott Famous.

The allure of bigleaf maple honey

Rusty — Fri, 30 Sep 2011 19:19:15 +0000

Early each spring I’m on the lookout for a frame of bigleaf maple honey. It blooms before the honey supers are in place, so I rifle through the brood boxes, looking for that special treat. In anticipation of this event, I often put an empty frame at the edge of a few brood boxes the previous fall–hope against hope that one might get filled with this magic nectar.

Bigleaf maple is the first honey crop of the season here and it doesn’t happen often. The huge trees bloom while we’re still in the depths of the rainy season, so many years it goes uncollected. Some local beekeepers estimate we get a salable crop of bigleaf maple about one year in eight. Sigh. So very sad.

This spring, at the apex of bloom, I spied one frame in my busiest, sunniest hive. It was in the top brood box, in the number ten position, capped with bright white wax and seething with bees. I gently pried it out, shook it, and replaced it with an empty frame, apologizing profusely to my bees the entire time.

I wrapped my prize in plastic, froze it overnight, and stuck it in a kitchen cupboard. I promptly forgot about it. Busy, busy. I thought about it once or twice, but never touched it all through spring and summer. But last weekend, as I was cleaning out my cupboards, I came across the pristine frame and knew it was time.

Since it was in a brood frame, I had to find and cut the cross wires before I could free the comb from the frame. But once I managed to find them all, the comb fell from the frame with a hearty thud. Honey ran out the sides and pooled on the wax paper. It had the color of champagne and the fragrance of spring.

I divided the comb into thirds and fit each piece into a gleaming glass container. On the way to the sink to wash stickies from my hands, I took a taste.

I stopped in my tracks. Licked my fingers. Licked the knife. Licked the wire cutters. I could not remember honey so good. I recalled the flavor immediately upon tasting it, but it was better somehow, richer, more complex. It was immorally good. Decadent beyond measure. Addictive. I had to sterilize everything after I stopped licking the kitchen.

The next morning I put it a container of it on the breakfast table with no word to my husband. We started eating breakfast when suddenly he said, “Oh my god, what is that?” He, too, remembered the flavor but thought it was better than ever. What is it about a good varietal honey in the comb? What is it about flavors we always remember?

Bigleaf maples (Acer macrophyllum) are huge trees. Large specimens can reach 100 feet tall and 48 inches in diameter. True to their name, the leaves can reach 24 inches wide. Seriously, you can lose your laptop under one leaf. The truly amazing thing, though, is the number of mosses, lichens, and ferns the trees support on their branches. Entire ecosystems exist up there among the protective foliage.

The trees produce small, fragrant, yellow-green flowers in March before the leaves begin to emerge. The flowers are attractive to many pollinators and the resultant seeds attract many small animals and birds. And the honey attracts me. Don’t pass up a chance to try it if you can find it.

Rusty

HoneyBeeSuite.com

Bigleaf maple near the hives.

Thixotrophic honey gels in the comb

Rusty — Wed, 15 Sep 2010 16:09:22 +0000

Thixotropy is a property of certain fluids—including honey—that results in changes in consistency. These fluids are gelatinous when undisturbed but become liquid when they are shaken or stirred. If left to rest, they will revert to the gelatinous state.

Several types of honey are well known for being thixotrophic. Among them are manuka honey (Leptospermum scoparium) from New Zealand and southeast Australia, ling or heather honey (Calluna vulgaris) from Europe, and grapefruit honey (Citrus paradisi).

It is believed that certain proteins are responsible for this behavior in honey. Honeys that are high in protein (up to 1.9%) are more prone to thixotropy than others. Most honeys have only trace amounts of protein and so are unaffected.

While the nutritional properties of honey are not changed by this, the honey is difficult to extract. A regular centrifugal extractor often won’t work unless the honey is agitated first. To do this a number of inventions have appeared, including a device that inserts vibrating pins into every cell. Once vibrated into liquid, the frames are transferred to a regular extractor.

Since this method is expensive and time-consuming, much thixotrophic honey is pressed from the comb. Although this destroys the comb, the wax can be used for other purposes. Alternatively, thixotrophic honey can be sold in its natural state as comb honey.

Rusty

Manuka flower (Leptospermum scoparium). Flickr photo by iamNigelMorris.

Buckwheat: a casualty of American agriculture

Rusty — Mon, 30 Aug 2010 19:27:02 +0000

I have an emotional attachment to buckwheat—it’s that simple. Growing up in rural Pennsylvania, special-occasion breakfasts were celebrated with buckwheat pancakes topped with buckwheat honey. These dark-colored, robust-flavored pancakes were started the night before with a yeast batter and cooked the next morning on a cast-iron griddle, sizzling hot.

The cakes were served with fresh creamery butter, gently warmed honey, and a glass of ice-cold milk. On good days, the cakes were made to have ears that somewhat resembled Mickey Mouse. These tasted better than the rest—I kid you not—and my siblings and I vied for these special treats.

Sadly, buckwheat (Fagopyrum esculentum) is a crop that has almost disappeared from American agriculture. Plantings dropped from about 1,000,000 acres in 1918 to about 50,000 acres in 1964. After that, I’m told, acreage records are not available—in other words, there wasn’t enough to bother counting.

Buckwheat is not even remotely related to wheat—it’s not even a grass—but is so named because the seed is ground into flour and used like wheat. It is gluten free, which is why the buckwheat cakes were always made with yeast.

Buckwheat grows fast even in poor soils as long as the soil is well-drained. A newly planted field can yield seed in as little as six weeks. The quantity of seed produced is greatly increased in the presence of pollinators—especially honey bees. And as all beekeepers know, the nectar produces a rich, dark honey with the flavor and consistency of molasses. Of all the varietal honeys, it is reported to be the highest in vitamins and minerals.

The undulating white fields I remember from childhood provide both nectar and pollen to honey bees, and it is said that a colony of bees on a field of buckwheat can store 10-15 pounds of honey per day. Nectar flows from about 8 a.m. till noon and then dries up for the day, so while bees are in obvious attendance in the morning hours they are gone soon after lunch.

I loved buckwheat all over again when I had to take a seed identification course in college. Of all the hundreds of seeds I had to memorize by sight, buckwheat by far was the easiest. It is basically triangular, with the three sides coming together in a point at each end. It is also fairly big, so you can’t miss it. Besides being grown for the seed, buckwheat is also frequently sown as a cover crop. Its quick growth makes it ideal for crowding out the local weeds.

If you have a chance to try some buckwheat, be sure to do it. Besides buckwheat cakes, you can commonly find it made into Japanese noodles (soba) or served as porridge (kasha). And don’t forget to try the honey—that’s the very best part.

Rusty

Fagopyrum esculentum. Photo by Kurt Stueber, Wikimedia Commons.

Common buckwheat seeds. Photo by Steve Hurst, USDA-NRCS Plants Database.