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“Well," said Pooh, "what I like best," and then he had to stop and think. Because although Eating Honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn't know what it was called.”
― A. A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

“I shouldn't think even millionaires could eat anything nicer than new bread and real butter and honey for tea.”
― Dodie Smith, I Capture the Castle

“Honey, no offense, but sometimes I think I could shoot you and watch you kick.”
― Raymond Carver, Where I'm Calling From: New and Selected Stories

“Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt --
O, marvelous error --
That there was a beehive here inside my heart
And the golden bees were making white combs
And sweet honey from all my failures.”
― Antonio Machado

“The keeping of bees is like the direction of sunbeams.”
― Henry David Thoreau

“We think we can make honey without sharing in the fate of bees, but we are in truth nothing but poor bees, destined to accomplish our task and then die.”
― Muriel Barbery, The Elegance of the Hedgehog

“A true queen is made not in times of prosperity, but in times of hardship.”
― Marissa Meyer, Archenemies

“What is happening to me happens to all fruits that grow ripe.
It is the honey in my veins that makes my blood thicker, and my soul quieter.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche

“Here is something that Peach, one of the Casserole Queens, says about men and women and love. You know that scene in Romeo and Juliet, where Romeo is standing on the ground looking longingly at Juliet on the balcony above him? One of the most romantic moments in all of literary history? Peach says there's no way that Romeo was standing down there to profess his undying devotion. The truth, Peach says, is that Romeo was just trying to look up Juliet's skirt.”
― Deb Caletti, Honey, Baby, Sweetheart

“She was one of those languid women, made of dark honey, smooth and sweet, and terribly sticky, who take control of a room with a syrupy gesture, a toss of the hair, a single slow whiplash of the eyes â€� and all the while remain as still as the centre of a hurricane, apparently unaware of the force of gravity by which they irresistibly attract themselves the yearnings and the souls of both men and women.”
― Patrick Süskind

“Dutifully, the Count put the spoon in his mouth. In an instant, there was the familiar sweetness of fresh honey—sunlit, golden, and gay. Given the time of year, the Count was expecting this first impression to be followed by a hint of lilacs from the Alexander Gardens or cherry blossoms from the Garden Ring. But as the elixir dissolved on his tongue, the Count became aware of something else entirely. Rather than the flowering trees of Central Moscow, the honey had a hint of a grassy riverbank . . . the trace of a summer breeze . . . a suggestion of a pergola . . . But most of all there was the unmistakable essence of a thousand apple trees in bloom.
"Nizhny Novgorod", he said.
And it was.”
― Amor Towles, A Gentleman in Moscow

“We lived for honey. We swallowed a spoonful in the morning to wake us up and one at night to put us to sleep. We took it with every meal to calm the mind, give us stamina, and prevent fatal disease. We swabbed ourselves in it to disinfect cuts or heal chapped lips. It went in our baths, our skin cream, our raspberry tea and biscuits. Nothing was safe from honey...honey was the ambrosia of the gods and the shampoo of the goddesses.”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

“Stands the Church clock at ten to three?
And is there honey still for tea?”
― Rupert Brooke, The old vicarage, Grantchester

“I kiss her. I kiss her and kiss her. I try not to bite her lip. She tastes like vodkahoney.”
― Lidia Yuknavitch, Dora: A Headcase

“Love drips like honey from the hive, constant, sweet, precious, into your heart each and every moment if you let it.”
― Amy Leigh Mercree

“Dark honey from the second harvest. It's made late in the season after the nectar drought at the end of July when the bees turn to goldenrod and sunflowers instead. It's deeper and richer, it tastes like secrets.”
― Jodi Picoult, Mad Honey

“The stories shatter. Or you wear them out or leave them behind. Over time the story of the memory loses its power. Over time you become someone else. Only when the honey turns to dust are you free.”
― Rebecca Solnit, A Field Guide to Getting Lost

“I love you so, honey.
I love you too, money.”
― Toba Beta, My Ancestor Was an Ancient Astronaut

“Cootamundra wattle

Meaning: I wound to heal
Acacia baileyana | New South Wales

Graceful tree with fern-like foliage and bright golden-yellow globe-shaped flower heads. Adaptable, hardy evergreen, easy to grow. Profuse flowering in winter. Heavily fragrant and sweetly scented. Produces abundant pollen, favored for feeding bees in the production of honey.”
― Holly Ringland, The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart

“Honey grevillea

Meaning: Foresight
Grevillea eriostachya | Inland Australia

Kaliny-kalinypa (Pitjantjatjara) is a straggly shrub with long narrow silver-green leaves that produces bright green, yellow and orange flowers. Commonly grows on red sandhills and dunes. The flowers contain thick, honey-like nectar, which can be sucked from the flowers; a favorite treat for Anangu children.”
― Holly Ringland, The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart

“Servers moved among the guests with trays of hors d'oeuvres and the signature cocktail, champagne with a honey infused liqueur and a delicate spiral twist of lemon.
The banquet was bursting with color and flavor- flower-sprinkled salads, savory chili roasted salmon, honey glazed ribs, just-harvested sweet corn, lush tomatoes and berries, artisan cheeses. Everything had been harvested within a fifty-mile radius of Bella Vista.
The cake was exactly what Tess had requested, a gorgeous tower of sweetness. Tess offered a gracious speech as she and Dominic cut the first slices. "I've come a long way from the city girl who subsisted on Red Bull and microwave burritos," she said. "There's quite a list of people to thank for that- my wonderful mother, my grandfather and my beautiful sister who created this place of celebration. Most of all, I'm grateful to Dominic." She turned to him, offering the first piece on a yellow china plate. "You're my heart, and there is no sweeter feeling than the love we share. Not even this cake. Wait, that might be overstating it. Everyone, be sure you taste this cake. It's one of Isabel's best recipes.”
― Susan Wiggs, The Beekeeper's Ball

“There once was a town.
It was a quaint little town, in a quiet valley, where life moved at the pace of snails and the only road in was the only way out, too. There was a candy store that sold the sweetest honey taffy you ever tasted, and a garden store that grew exotic, beautiful blooms year-round. The local café was named after a possum that tormented its owner for years, and the chef there made the best honey French toast in the Northeast. There was a bar where the bartender always knew your name, and always served your burgers slightly burnt, though the local hot sauce always disguised the taste. If you wanted to stay the weekend, you could check-in at the new bed-and-breakfast in town--- just as soon as its renovations were finished, and just a pleasant hike up Honeybee Trail was a waterfall there, rumor had it, if you made a wish underneath it, the wish would come true. There was a drugstore, a grocer, a jewelry store that was open only when Mercury was in of retrograde---
And, oh, there was a bookstore.
It was tucked into an unassuming corner of an old brick building fitted with a labyrinthine maze of shelves stocked with hundreds of books. In the back corner was a reading space with a fireplace, and chairs so cozy you could sink into them for hours while you read. The rafters were filled with glass chimes that, when the sunlight came in through the top windows, would send dapples of colors flooding across the stacks of books, painting them in rainbows. A family of starlings roosted in the eaves, and sang different songs every morning, in time with the tolls of the clock tower.
The town was quiet in that cozy, sleepy way that if you closed your eyes, you could almost hear the valley breathe as wind crept through it, between the buildings, and was sighed out again.”
― Ashley Poston, A Novel Love Story

“The pancakes and French toast were topped with locally sourced Honey-Honey honey, made grumpy to order with powdered sugar and cinnamon, with a perfectly star-cut strawberry on top.”
― Ashley Poston, A Novel Love Story

“If you are an aspiring honey farmer, I have a documentary you NEED to watch. It's called The Beekeeper, and it stars Jason Stratham. It is the Mission Impossible of apiculturist culture.”
― Jarod Kintz, A Memoir of Memories and Memes

“She flipped to the next page with the heading "Love Honey."

1 handful of cotton
2 red clovers
A few drops of honeysuckle nectar
Dash of nutmeg sugar

Put all ingredients inside a copper bee smoker. Light it with a match soaked in rosemary oil and drop it in. Go to a hive you know well at sunrise and say the words while you smoke them:

Come to me, my love
You will find me in the creek swimming you
Or in the kitchen baking you
Or in my bed sleeping you
I will think only of you
And you will think only of me
You will be hungry when you eat
You will be tired when you sleep
Until you come to me
My love ”
― Alli Dyer, Strange Folk

“She pushed the memory away as she shelled the small hill of pistachios. In the stone mortar and pestle, which had been in her family for two generations, she added the green and purplish kernels, along with a generous pinch of cardamom seeds, before pounding the mixture into a paste. Folding in a dollop of honey, she tasted the thick paste. The nutty flavor of the pistachios blended with the spiced perfume of cardamom and the sweetness of honey to create a mouthwatering blend that would serve as the perfect filling for the cake.
By now, her syrup had cooled enough to start the dough. In a large clay bowl, she mixed cow's milk with soft butter and the syrup, adding an egg and finally the wheat flour. It was only second-grade wheat, but it was good enough for a cake.”
― Tessa Afshar, The Queen's Cook

“The crystalline currents of the river Karkheh flowed to the west of Susa, irrigating the thirsty city. It was said to have the purest water in the world. For that reason, no one was allowed to drink from its waters but the king.
Roxannah's favorite place was the river's fertile banks, which provided endless treasures for anyone patient enough to search for them. Here, she foraged for wild ingredients that had the advantage of being free as well as delicious resources for the new recipes she loved to create.
Walking by the river's banks at sunrise, Roxannah came across a cluster of wild, twisty fig trees. It was early for the first harvest. But a few handfuls of precocious fruit had ripened enough to be picked.
At home, she snipped the stems and washed the figs before letting them simmer with honey, adding a touch of her special blend of spices. They would taste delicious with the creamy yogurt she had made the day before.”
― Tessa Afshar, The Queen's Cook

“Training a cat to guard milk!”
― Dipti Dhakul

“The honey appears on an oval tin tray, craggy blocks of honeycomb oozing their sticky cargo onto the tray. We scoop the honey up with forks (I looked in vain for a spoon), trying hard not to drip on the tired pink carpet that covers the floor of the tent. The honey is not as sweet as that at home, more liquid, and its fragrance is both floral and resinous.
Perched in the tent on a mountain, surrounded by tall pines, the scent of woodsmoke and the sound of the distant water rushing over rocks like the laughter of happy children, this could well be the breakfast of dreams.”
― Nigel Slater, A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joyâ€� A Memoir of Sorts

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― Little Honey