My father has many hives and more jars of honey than he knows what to do with, he keeps it in his garage; it has different flavours, in accord with the pollen—you may have read about that.
For a long time I hated my father and refused to speak to him; then, at twenty-seven, I decided to be just and I made him an offering—I made him a device to melt honey from the comb. He accepted the device and placed it in his attic—so far as I know, he never used it.
Now I don’t talk to my father at all. I had been bad, I had been good—but in the end I had to go out into the wilderness and make my own honey.