So, Why Am I Writing About Honey (and Other Sticky Situations)?

Some people collect stamps.
Others chase sunsets or soulmates.
Me? I chase honey.

The weirder, wilder, messier, the better.
The kind that tastes like crushed leaves, thunder, and your ex’s mixtape.

There are easier obsessions.
But I chose the one that leaks, stains, ferments,
and occasionally smells like someone’s emotional baggage.

Honey.
Sticky, unpredictable, and deeply misunderstood honey.
The kind that smells a little weird, tastes like forest heartbreak,
and somehow makes grown women cry at my table.

It started innocently enough — one curious taste. Then another. And another.
Next thing I knew, I was spiraling into phrases like
“burnt caramel with a medicinal edge” and
“this one tastes like an herbalist’s love letter.”

That’s how you know you’ve gone too far.
Or just far enough.

People ask why I do this.
Why I sit in softly lit rooms with tiny jars,
swishing wild nectar like it’s wine- the way some people swirl tea or taste olive oil — slow, intentional, curious.
They ask what I’m looking for.

And here’s the thing:
It’s not just flavor.

It’s what the flavor unlocks.

Sometimes it’s memory.
Sometimes it’s grief.
Sometimes it’s just a really good reason
to stay quiet for a while
and sip something ancient.

This blog isn’t here to convince you honey is cool
(although… it very much is).

It’s here because I needed a space
to pour all the in-betweens —
the things I taste but can’t quite say out loud in workshops.

Like how kelulut reminds me of my grandmother’s sarong left in the rain.
Or how I once watched a woman hold Tualang to her chest like a prayer and whisper:
“I don’t know why this makes me want to cry… but it does.”

I didn’t ask her why.
I didn’t need to.

Sometimes honey just finds the thing you’ve tucked away —
the heartbreak, the hug, the hush.
And when it does?
You let go.

Weird things happen around honey.
Soft things.
Quiet things.
Beautiful, sticky things.

So yes. I’m writing about honey.
And if I accidentally write about love, loneliness, softness, rage,
or what it means to feel safe again —

well....

Blame the bees.

—
🐝
Still tasting, still listening.
— Nirwana