Dipping: Memoir

The forties of the last century: A glass dish on our kitchen table, shaped like an open hand,  full to the top with sugar. Beneath it a lace tablecloth, not an heirloom or even hand made, but a find from the dime store. I eye the bowl, thinking I'll lick a finger and stick it in, when there's a knock on the front door and Mama opens it to Mr. and Mrs. Spees. I run to Mr. Spees, who always has Dentyne gum in his pocket for me.

Sixty years later: I read that we taste four flavors: sweet, sour, salty, bitter. I've never cared much to go past sweet.

Grieving for bees being killed off by vampire mites, I am deeply touched that one bee will groom another, trying to bite the mites. I mention this to a date while sitting on his porch enjoying the delicious spring air after dinner. Just returned from a trip to Italy, he buzzes off and brings back ten small pots of honey with Italian labels, each a different flavor. I expected clover, orange blossom, even blackberry, but also on this little tray are pots of acacia honey, chestnut honey, and a thick Millefiori.

"No spoon?" I ask.

"You have ten fingers," he says with a grin.

I feel six years old again, dipping my fingers in something sweet.