Something sweetly strange: honey dippers & the art of dippering

Inside: Although they may appear useless, honey dippers are well-liked by many. In fact, some argue that dipping transforms honey into a special occasion.

Serving honey with a twist

Several years ago at Christmastime, our daughter gave us a ceramic skep-shaped honey dish with a wooden honey dipper. Oddly enough, this was my first experience with a honey dipper. Although I never paid much attention to them, I thought they were weird. After all, what can a dipper do that a spoon cannot? And now that I’ve used one for a while, I’m even more befuddled by this strange utensil.

I’m a fan of comb honey, which requires cutting and spreading, so a regular kitchen knife has always been my weapon of choice. To me, the practice of combining honey from different combs is even more perplexing than using a honey dipper. However, I realize few people agree with me on this. Because modern beekeepers nearly always extract their honey crop, dippers have a perpetual audience.

My husband, Rich, never used a honey dipper either because he grew up with creamed honey, something that also requires a knife. Together, the two of us knew zilch about the art of dippering.

The physics of honey dippers

Upon examining the Christmas dipper, Rich began to speculate, and that’s when I began to take notes. He said, “Wooden dippers were probably turned on a lathe beginning whenever lathes became popular. The lathes could be hand-turned or, later, motorized. The design probably arose in India, China, Germany, or Mesopotamia.” Mesopotamia? I have no idea where this came from. Never before has he mentioned Mesopotamia to me.

He twisted the dipper into the honey and ruminated. “The dipper is easy and natural to use. Honey is viscous. On a dipper, honey forms a glob due to gravity. When the force of gravity (Fg) exceeds the force of cohesion (Fc), the glob separates from the dipper and plops into your oatmeal.” Oatmeal? This is another subject he’s never mentioned to me — not even once. I’m transfixed.

“The adhesion between the honey and wood increases because of the parallel grooves around the circumference of the dipper.” He compared it to how high-voltage insulators impede a spark’s path. Really? And this is relevant?

He continued. “If you hold the dipper horizontally and rotate, the glob never accumulates because Fg<Fc. As long as you keep spinning it, there is no issue of the honey falling from the dipper. This is unlike a knife, where it slides off, or a spoon, where it drips from the bottom. Compared to most utensils, it can deliver honey with precision. For example, with an English muffin, you can fill all the little holes individually.” So cool! Why had he not explained muffin amendment before now?¹

In conclusion, he opined that “the honey dipper was an advanced device first made by people who hadn’t studied flow dynamics and physics.”

Boundary layers and the flow of liquids

When I consulted a physics book for further clarification, I gathered that the shape of a dipper provides lots of surface area for the amount of honey scooped. The many places where the honey rubs against the wood form a boundary layer where molecules of honey resist the pull of gravity because of friction between the honey and the wood.

The more surface area the dipper has, the slower the honey drips. But the viscosity of the liquid also plays an important role. A very viscous liquid has a wider boundary layer than a thin, runny liquid. For example, if you tried to pick up your tea with a honey dipper, even rapid turning wouldn’t prevent gravity from pulling the tea back down to earth with urgency.

However, any slow-moving liquid can benefit from a dipper. Besides honey, you can use dippers to drizzle maple syrup, chocolate syrup, molasses, caramel sauce, some salad dressings, barbecue sauce, or even loose jam. You could buy dippers by the dozen and still have a need for more.

Honey dippers for everyone

Honey dippers, also known as honey wands, honey sticks, honey spoons, and drizzlers, do indeed have a long history. Progenitors of today’s dippers surfaced among Egyptian artifacts. These were wooden sticks with grooves cut along the length, although fancier models had ridged fan-shaped ends that further increased their surface area. By the Middle Ages, dippers made of bone or metal became common in kitchens everywhere, from dugouts to monasteries.

And Rich was right about woodworkers and their lathes. Today, you can find websites and YouTubes with precise instructions for dipper manufacture using popular species of wood such as olive, maple, walnut, beech, and bamboo. Each woodworker has a favorite wood and a signature pattern, meaning copious dippers are everywhere. I even saw a dipper design where the small end held a honey-based lollypop — a combination dipper/sucker.

But wooden dippers are the tip of the iceberg. You can also find dippers made of stainless steel, silver-plated brass, plastic, silicone, ceramic, and glass. Even so, wooden dippers are considered superior because they won’t chip your teacup — a good thing to know because it’s tacky to be a dipper chipper.

Some beekeepers claim that wood is superior because it absorbs the flavor of honey, while metals or plastic impart a flavor to honey. In addition, wood has antibacterial properties that can protect the honey even after multiple dips. Apparently, wood is a winner in the dipper department.

If you choose, you can season a new wooden dipper. First, lightly sand any rough spots or splinters. Next, wash the dipper with warm water and a drop of dish soap. Once it’s dry, lightly coat the entire dipper with olive or coconut oil, wiping off any excess.

Controlling the goo

When it comes to mastering the art of dippering, metering is key. Experienced dippers get high on controlling the flow. You hold them one way to avoid drips and another to encourage drips. The angle you choose — somewhere between vertical and horizontal — displays your artistry. The controlled descent of your honey onto the substrate reveals a lot (I’m told) about your personality. Some say it’s all in the wrist.

The shape of the dipping part is variable, and the shape together with the size determines how much honey gets delivered and how fast. Popular shapes are cylinders, spheres, skeps, teardrops, pears, and points. Some historians claim the original carvings were modeled on pinecones, full of gravity-defying voids for safely transporting your honey from crock to crumpet.

Each shape presents its own control variables, so different shapes require different techniques. The problem is so complex that those who wish to apportion an exact measurement into their tea — say a teaspoon — are better off leaving dippers to the pros.

Dipping protocol: how to do it properly

Apparently, much dissension exists about dipping protocol. For example, when having tea, do you dribble above the cup and simply replace the dipper in the jar? Or do your swirl the dipper in your tea before replacing it in the bowl? Or do you drizzle, lick, and wash?

Much to my amazement, I found an internet survey on dipping protocol. According to the compiled results, the overwhelming majority swirl the honey-laden dipper into their tea and then stick the wet dipper back in the jar. Ew.

Believe it or not, dippering protocol kindles repressed emotions. For example, people who never wash the dipper fear wasting honey, so they put it back in the pot. Others insist on washing the dipper after every use, even if it never touched the tea. But some say leaving the dipper in the jar between uses provides an opening for bugs, germs, and dust to enter the jar and contaminate the honey.

The people who submerge the dipper in their tea and place it back into the jar think that’s how the dipper was intended. But others fear the tea will damage the honey with unwanted flavors and too much water — an invitation to fermentation.

Rumor has it that friendships fold, marriages dissolve, and empires vanish all because of dipper discord. This is not surprising to me because I live in a household with his and her toilet paper holders, each unrolling in a different direction. It’s often the smallest life habits that cause the greatest social angst.

The modern lid and dipper combo

In the last few years, a variation of the traditional dipper has become inexplicably popular. In this variation, the lid of the jar has a dipper built into it, much like those bottles of glue with the wand attached.

Although people say they’re brilliant, I find them threatening. What if you don’t want to drizzle but would rather spread with a knife? If you place the lid on the counter, how do you control the honey that runs the length of the dipper and floods the lid? Or what if the honey solidifies in the jar, permanently affixing the dipper (with attached lid) to the bottom of the jar?

And even if you retrieve every last morsel of honey, what do you do with the container? Isn’t tossing a jar and lid wasteful enough without adding dipper debris? There’s enough stress in life without additional attachments.

Don’t forget that dippers make great stocking stuffers, or tie one onto a gift of honey.

Affiliate Disclosure: As an Amazon Associate, I may earn commissions from qualifying purchases from Amazon.com.

Bears and ponies

In retrospect, ‌the honey dipper is a one-trick pony that essentially disappeared after the plastic squeeze bear made its way into modern kitchens. After all, we like to squeeze before eating, whether it’s ketchup, mustard, mayo, taco sauce, or honey.

But aficionados of dippering say it’s the experience rather than the utility that makes it special. The dipper makes honey an event rather than just a condiment. A dipper is romantic, an artifact of times gone by, a conversation piece, and an art form. Dippering enhances honey by transforming squeezed food back into slow food.

The “slow food” movement stresses local, healthful agricultural products. It values quality over quantity and strives to preserve regional and traditional cuisines. Perhaps we should all take a few extra moments to use a dipper and slowly, artfully move our honey from table to toast.

The last stop for your honey dippers

Unfortunately, even art has a downside. When our gift of honey was about half gone, the remainder crystallized into something akin to concrete. The honey dipper itself became solidly affixed to the bottom of the jar and I feared breaking it as I chipped away at the rock-hard crystals.

This event solidified our family discussion of the physics of dipping, and our only dipper is now in the kitchen drawer that corrals orphaned utensils like pickle pickers, nutmeg graters, and banana slicers. I think most dippers, regardless of material and design, eventually end up in the same kind of place.

But that’s not to say you shouldn’t gift honey dippers at every opportunity. Many beekeepers tell me their honey sells faster when they tie a simple wooden dipper (available in bulk) to the jar with a piece of string. Try it next time you sell honey, and maybe add a lollypop, too. And be sure to let me know what happens.

A note about muffins

In case you were wondering, English muffins originated in New York, although the creative baker, Samuel Bath Thomas, emigrated from England in 1874. According to folklore, Thomas was trying to make a thin, pre-cut crumpet, but ended up with the now-familiar hole-studded muffin.

Whenever I mention English muffins here on my website, a few British readers ask, “What’s an English muffin?” Although they call them “toasting muffins,” “breakfast muffins,” or just plain “muffins,” we all agree they are perfect with honey.

Rusty
Honey Bee Suite

About Me

I backed my love of bee science with a bachelor’s degree in Agronomic Crops and a master’s in Environmental Studies. I write extensively about bees, including a current column in American Bee Journal and past columns in Two Million Blossoms and Bee Craft. I’ve endured multiple courses in melittology and made extensive identifications of North American bees for iNaturalist and other organizations. My master beekeeper certificate issued from U Montana. I’m also an English nerd. More here.