It's available in all types and flavors and adds a complex note to a strawberry-rhubarb pie; but in my memory, sweet honey also goes with stories about bad guys.
Sweet irony.
My first job out of college was at a weekly newspaper in the high mountain San Luis Valley in southern Colorado. The company owned five papers — four community sheets and a shopper; and I was hired to work solo on the smallest of the five in a town of fewer than 2,000 people that was about 85 percent Hispanic.
I never put out a single paper in that town because within days of starting my new job, the publisher quit in an emotional meeting that had long-term employees in tears and me wondering what mad chaos I had stepped into. His son, the advertising director, quit soon afterward, and a major shakeup followed down the line. I ended up becoming one of three reporters at the “premiere” paper in the group.
Within six months, I was managing editor. (I wouldn’t necessarily claim that this was a reflection of my stellar performance but more a confirmation of the fact that I had a pulse.) I did a little bit of everything, something different every day: writing, designing, photography, delivery, answering the phone, making coffee (well, maybe not so much making coffee). By the time I left journalism a few years ago — to use the euphemism that makes the experience more personally-palatable — I had worked for about 17 years at one of the biggest newspapers in the state in a specialized job that, for the most part, kept me doing the same thing nearly every shift.
And yet, the more things change, the more they stay rooted in a sticky layer of didn’t-I-do-this-before-?.
I was thinking about that the other day when I stopped at the honey shop on the north edge of town for something sweet to add to this pie. The shop is in a log building painted black and yellow, striped like a bumblebee, with picture windows along the front so you can peek in on the apiary equipment and the honey candy and beeswax candles. It’s been there for about 12 years, calling people from the highway with its garish paint job and its promises of honeycomb and bees. This was the first time I’d ever been there — even though I love honey.
Too many years in a newsroom, however, mostly what I think when I see that hard-to-miss hive is it’s a weird twist of fate that connects a sweet shop with violent crime.
In 2011, an apartment building under construction in Old Town Fort Collins, about a block away from an Occupy Fort Collins (nee Occupy Wall Street) campsite was destroyed by an early morning fire. According to prosecutors, the fire, determined to be arson, caused $10 million in damage to the building and the neighboring complex and threatened the lives of
And yet, the more things change, the more they stay rooted in a sticky layer of didn’t-I-do-this-before-?.
21 people asleep in the building next door at the time of the fire. The owner of the honey shop, an active member of the protest group, was arrested and charged with arson, burglary and attempted murder. A trial about a year after the arrest ended in a hung jury; in a second trial the shop owner was convicted of arson, burglary and criminal mischief but acquitted on the attempted murder charge. Although he maintained his innocence throughout and had a lot of support in the community, he was sentenced to eight years in prison.
I remember pondering the irony as I wrote those headlines. It took around two years before he was sentenced, standing in the courtroom weeping while his wife and baby watched, so there were lots of headlines and lots of time to ponder.
That isn’t, it turns out, the only honey story with a bite. And nowhere near the worst.
When I was a reporter in the San Luis Valley, I wrote a feature on a family honey business that had been in operation since 1907. It was a fun interview during which we talked about honey’s healing properties (hot toddy anyone?) and history (Cleopatra used to bathe in milk and honey) and the economic impact of the industry (more than 69,000 tons per year produced in the U.S.; about 1.5 million pounds produced in Colorado alone in 2019). I was given a tour of the hives, and then returned a few weeks later to buy a cookbook for my mother.
Several years later, the 45-year-old son of the honey farm’s owner was arrested in a drug-slash-torture case and was charged with assault, menacing, false imprisonment, domestic violence, possession of cocaine and drug paraphernalia, and having a vicious dog. The allegation was that the suspect and a friend, angry that a female acquaintance wouldn’t tell them where a stash of cocaine was hidden, tortured her for hours. Sheriff deputies responding to her 911 call said she was hogtied and shackled, shocked with a battery, burned with cigarettes, set on fire after being doused with alcohol, had unknown chemicals poured in her eyes, was threatened with a gun and choked until she lost consciousness. In addition, the victim said the honey man sicced his dog on her. She was treated at a hospital and released; the two men bonded out of jail. A week later, additional charges were filed that included bomb making and being in possession of a missile launcher. The honey man bonded out of jail again, but he never made it before a jury, dying by suicide before the trial began.
Now, whenever I think about honey, I remember those stories. It probably says more about me than it does about the honey industry, but all these years later, I am still struck by the irony, thinking that maybe the beekeepers (at least, those beekeepers) are more like the bees that sting you than the sweet honey that heals you.
The pie
My mother used to make a delicious rhubarb pie with apricot honey. I don’t know where she bought the honey, but she always seemed to have it when rhubarb grew too quickly and too persistently in the backyard. So when I saw rhubarb in the grocery story this week, nestled in the produce section next to early spring asparagus and bright orange carrots, thin and red and bright and beautiful, I knew it was time to make a pie. I wanted to use my mother’s recipe, so I went on a hunt for apricot honey. I didn’t find it. In the honey shop on the edge of town, I found everything else: clover honey, alfalfa honey, wildflower honey, cream honey, honey comb, honey candy, honey flavored with cinnamon, blueberry, blackberry, raspberry, maple, hazelnut and hemp. I chose blackberry — a decision that was surprisingly difficult. It wasn’t quite as bright as I remember the apricot honey being, instead adding a deep, earthy sweetness to the rhubarb. I suspect any of the flavored honeys would be a nice addition; choose based on your unique taste buds.
The recipe
Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie with Blackberry Honey
The filling
About 4 cups rhubarb, cut in ½ inch pieces
About 2 cups sliced strawberries
1¼ cups sugar
6 tablespoons flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/3 cup flavored honey
Pastry for double crust 9-inch pie
(I typically use some combination of 6 cups of fruit in a 9-inch pie. My mother’s Apricot-Honey Rhubarb Pie was made exclusively with rhubarb. However, I had some tart strawberries, so I sliced them and added them to the rhubarb.)
Combine fruit with sugar, flour and salt. Blend in the honey. Let stand while making crust.
Line 9-inch pie pan with pastry. Fill with rhubarb mixture. Adjust top crust and seal edges. (For a sparkling crust, brush with milk and sprinkle with sugar.)
Bake in a very hot oven, 450 degrees, for 10 minutes; reduce heat to moderate, 350 degrees, and bake for 35 to 40 minutes, until the crust is golden brown.
The crust
Any simple crust recipe will work for this pie. I used a whole wheat crust because I bought a bag of whole wheat flour by mistake (pandemic shopping, sheesh!) and wanted to use some of it up. This recipe is the pie crust my mother always used — simple, quick and delicious.
2 cups sifted flour
1 teaspoon salt
2/3 cups shortening (plus 2 tablespoons more if you’re using hydrogenated shortening)
4 tablespoons water
Measure the flour into a mixing bowl and mix the salt through it.
With a pastry blender, cut in half the shortening finely, until mixture looks like meal.
Cut in the remaining shortening coarsely, until particles are the size of giant peas.
Sprinkle with water, a tablespoon at a time, mixing lightly with a fork until all the flour is moistened. (If the dough is dry, add more water sparingly, one tablespoon at a time.)
Gather dough together with fingers so it cleans the bowl.
Press the dough into a ball. Roll out the dough, half for the bottom crust and half for a top crust, and place in pie plate; or wrap in waxed paper or plastic wrap and store in refrigerator until needed.
Comments