Harvesting Liquid Amber with the Bozdağ Honeykeepers
When dawn brushes the Bozdağ Mountains with violet light, beekeeper Ayşe Çelik is already trudging up a slope fringed with thyme and mountain roses. A veil hangs loose around her shoulders; the bees know her scent and rarely sting. I follow carefully, carrying a thermos of sage tea and a notebook that soon sticks with propolis. We are here to taste the honey that crackles inside our Rose Honeycomb Brittle. Ayşe insists that we meet it where it is born. “Honey is not an ingredient,” she says. “It is a landscape poured into a jar.”
Ayşe belongs to a lineage of nomadic beekeepers who chase bloom cycles across western Anatolia. In spring, her hives rest in citrus groves; by midsummer, they perch on Bozdağ’s terraced clearings, surrounded by wild thyme, blackberry, and resinous pine. Each microclimate produces a different timbre. We need the mountain’s amber—a honey that is floral yet herbaceous, with a whisper of smoke that survives the heat of our copper pots.
As the sun climbs, Ayşe pulls frames from the first hive. The comb glows deep gold, capped with wax as thin as onion skin. She listens by pressing her ear to the wooden box; a low hum signals content bees. “If they buzz sharply, the queen is unsettled,” she explains. Content bees mean honey that will crystallise slowly, perfect for the brittle’s glassy crunch. We taste straight from the comb. The honey blooms on my tongue—first sweet, then a peppery tickle, then a grounding note of pine. I scribble descriptors: resin, hay, velvety smoke. These words guide how long we simmer the syrup, when we add grape molasses, how much rose syrup to brush once the honeycomb cools.
Harvest days are choreographed. Ayşe works in tandem with her brother Murat, who spins frames in a hand-cranked extractor, and their mother, who strains honey through cloth while reciting weather lore. “If the bees cluster close to the entrance,” she warns, “a storm will come by evening.” We hustle to cover the hives, building windbreaks from scrub oak. By noon, clouds gather. Rain arrives in silver sheets, drumming the tin roofs of their trailers. Inside, we share flatbread with fir honey butter and trade recipes. Ayşe asks about our newest collection; when I describe the Midnight Tea Ritual, she suggests steeping dried mulberries in the glaze for a duskier finish. Her advice becomes a limited seasonal run a month later.
Working with the Çelik family means aligning our kitchen with the bees’ calendar. Honey yields depend on wind direction, humidity, and the bloom of mountain marjoram. Some years we receive ample drums; other years we ration each kilogram. Scarcity breeds creativity. When a late frost reduces the harvest, we layer honeycomb shards between lokum and dust them with pistachio crumble, allowing a small amount to carry maximum aroma. Ayşe appreciates the respect. “Use every gram like a poem,” she says, sealing the last drum with beeswax.
Back in Izmir, the honey rests for a week, settling into caramel notes. On cooking day, we weigh the drums, breathing in the mountain breeze still trapped inside. The copper pot warms, grape molasses deepens the colour, and as the mixture reaches hard crack stage we stir in rosewater harvested from Isparta. The hot foam pours onto marble, expanding into honeycomb cells that mirror the frames Ayşe pulled at dawn. Once cooled, we coat the brittle with a glaze of rose petal tea and sesame praline, then snap it into shards that echo the rocky ledges of Bozdağ.
Every tin includes a short note about the honeykeepers, but the real tribute lives in flavour. Guests mention tasting thyme or sensing alpine air. That is the mountain speaking. It travelled via bee wings, human hands, copper kettles, and parchment wraps to reach a city apartment or a birthday supper. Ayşe’s family reads every customer letter we forward; they laugh, cry, and sometimes adjust hive placement based on feedback.
At the end of my visit, Ayşe gifts me a jar reserved for family. It is darker, almost mahogany—late-season honey rich with chestnut blossom. “For winter puddings,” she says. I promise to serve it at our next community tasting and to keep listening to the bees. We descend the mountain with sticky gloves, smoky clothes, and renewed reverence for the liquid amber that holds our honeycomb together. The road back to Izmir winds through pine shadows, carrying the scent of Bozdağ into every batch we will ever make.
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