It started with too much honey.
In 2014, our friend Pieter — a third-generation beekeeper outside Kerhonkson — had a record harvest and nowhere to sell it. We were three home brewers. We took a hundred pounds off his hands and promised to do something good with it.
The first batch was rough. The second was better. The fourth was the one we knew we wouldn't be able to stop making.
An apprenticeship, slowly.
For two years we read every book we could find, then traveled to Poland, Lithuania, and the Basque country to drink mead with people who had been making it for thirty years. We came home and threw away half of what we thought we knew.
What stayed: time matters more than technique, and honey wants to be left alone.
