At the Hayward Farmer's Market Saturday morning, after picking up some lovely, bright red tomatoes, and some large, plump peaches, my husband and I wandered over to the honey booth, with the vendor explaining loudly in spanish to a potential customer that his honey was the freshest, the best, the highest quality.
"Maybe I can use honey instead of agave for my chai tea in the morning, honey," I said as I stepped in for a closer look.
"Oh, babe, we have to get this kind," he assured me, pointing to the little plastic carton containing honey still in the comb.
"Really? Is it good?" I asked this question even as I was imagining this wonderful sweet, crunchy comb of honey that I could bite into like a great snack, and that would melt into my tea, thickening it with the honeycomb, as he essentially described precisely what I was imagining.
Cut to this morning and my husband furiously scooping melted wax off of the top of my tea despite the fact that he is running late for work.
"I'm so sorry, baby. Real honeycomb would have been just like I described."
It's actually kind of cute to watch my husband try to make up for his mistakes.
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