There’s a hum in everything. A subtle reminder perhaps, that we are all part of something larger. A vibration that pulses in fields, forests, alleyways, and of course, apiaries. If you listen close enough, you’ll hear it—it’s the sound of bees at work. And where there are bees, there is honey. But honey, as I’ve come to understand it through the stories of these three remarkable keepers—Yuki from Hawai‘i, Mark from South Carolina, and Abdullah in Chicago—isn’t just a sweet substance you add to your tea or baked goods. It’s a record. A ritual. A responsibility.
Through three different destinations, with three very different approaches, we’ll discover the many mysteries and gifts of the most essential insect on the planet; and the common profound reverence for the role humans play in the future of our food systems, and how best to work with nature, never against it.
Yuki: The Golden Triangle of Hawai‘i
Some stories start with flowers. Others with fire. Yuki begins with both.
From Manoa Honey on the island of O‘ahu, Yuki describes a relationship he calls “the golden triangle”—a sacred union between bees, flowers, and the human hands that tend to them. It’s ancient. Bees and blooms have been in a symbiotic relationship with each other for millennia, long before humans showed up. Eventually early humans would enter the triangle with care and respect, and something extraordinary would happen: Flavor and sweetness would also become part of the story.
His introduction to beekeeping happened unexpectedly at 19, during a trip to Jamaica. After watching a Rasta elder get stung and then instinctively harvest honey from a wild colony, Yuki felt a deep part of himself awaken. It was messy and wild. It was real. Yuki would leave that trip forever changed. He unknowingly had just planted seeds for what would become a life devoted to bees.
Hawai‘i is more than just home to Yuki. It’s a geological wonder, full of endemic plants. These blossoms yield honey with the taste of resilience and longevity. And then there’s the macadamia nut flower, a highly coveted blossom for the bees, creating a deep and buttery honey with nutty undertones. Every jar is a map of the Big Island’s botanical soul.
We tasted his work through the Hawaiian Pearl Diver, a lush, 1950s-style tiki cocktail made with two rums, citrus, bitters, and that signature honey glow. Sweet, but never cloying—like sipping sun-warmed earth.
Yuki’s honey isn’t just delicious. It’s intentional. It’s proof that when humans show up in harmony with nature, we become stewards—not just consumers.
Mark: The Legacy of Edisto Farms
Down in South Carolina, the humming is even louder, but much more grounded. This is where I met Mark of Edisto Farms Honey, a place where beekeeping is a birthright.
Mark’s journey began when his mother inherited four hives from an aging keeper who no longer had the ability to properly care for them. She never saw the bees as a burden; but rather a call to action. Soon, she had the whole family enrolled in beekeeping classes, learning not just from the textbooks but from the bees themselves.
What makes Edisto honey so remarkable is its terroir—a word we borrow from wine, but still applies here. With acres of wild Tupelo trees, blackberries, and blueberries growing with wild abandon. The resulting honey is a wildflower variety that’s rich, bright, and smooth. One taste will transport you to one of those big wrap-around porches, ice cold lemonade, and a slow moving natural spring.
Their innovation doesn’t stop with flavor. Edisto is also known for infusions—subtle,but complex blends that never overpower the honey but rather, elevate.
And what better way to experience its range than in the Charleston Society Punch: dark brown sugar, lemon, orange juice, soda water, and two cups of honey. Yes—two cups. It’s bold. It’s unapologetically Southern. It honors the land and the people who live in step with it.
Talking with Mark reminded me of something I say often—food is not just nourishment; it’s narrative. Edisto’s story is one of patience, long cherished tradition, and slow living.
Abdullah: Reclaiming Honey in Chicago
Our next trip may leave you scratching your head. Just stay with me here, because this next spot has plenty to teach us all.
Chicago, Illinois. A city with plenty of concrete, grit, and perseverance. But even amidst all the urban sprawl, there’s still plenty of bees buzzing—and Abdullah is listening.
He didn’t grow up loving honey. In fact, he actually wasn’t a fan at all. Like so many of us, he thought honey was that synthetic sweet stuff from supermarket shelves—more corn syrup than nectar. But instead of walking away, he got curious. What if honey could taste like something real? What if it could be infused with the flavors he craved—cinnamon, citrus, ginger—and still honor its origins?
That’s how Heaven’s Honey was born. Not out of rich tradition, but necessity. A mission to reclaim a sacred food that had long been distorted by mass production.
But Abdullah’s work goes far beyond flavor. Heaven’s Honey is a community movement. An open invitation to any who will listen. He’s opened a free visitation apiary in the heart of Chicago—yes, free. Full suits. Full tours. All are welcome. His goal? To show that protecting bees isn’t just for farmers or foodies. It’s for everyone. From eliminating pesticides in local vegetation to funding new beekeepers, Abdullah’s vision is one of restoration. Of bringing bees—and people—back to life.
We tried his honey in the Cargo Penicillin, a nod to one of Chicago’s oldest cocktails. With lemon, ginger, a hint of beer, and that warm, infused honey, the drink was grounding. Medicinal, even. A reminder that sweetness, when done right, is healing.
Abdullah’s story is one of transformation. His work is a powerful reminder that turning skepticism into stewardship is not only possible, but endlessly impactful
A Final Toast
So here’s to the hives. To the wild colonies of Jamaica, the lava-forged blossoms of Hawai‘i, the legacy hives of the South, and the community gardens of Chicago.
Here’s to honey that tastes like somewhere, like something that matters.
Here’s to beekeepers who are also educators, artists, scientists, and revolutionaries.
And here’s to the bees—the hum beneath it all. Quiet. Unrelenting. Holy.