Eugene Makovec 2019-09-09 10:07:36
Stinky feet. Molasses. Parmesan cheese. Buttered popcorn. Maybe buttered popcorn with parmesan cheese. That’s a wide range of descriptions for the aroma of goldenrod honey being cured on an autumn evening.
Longtime Kansas City beekeeper Roger Wood said recently, “When I first started beekeeping I was afraid I had foulbrood. I didn’t know very much. It took me a week in the library and several inspections to convince myself it was nectar, not foulbrood.”
I’ve grown accustomed to the annual questions from newer beekeepers about that weird, musty odor emanating from their hives in the fall. But for my first 15 years with bees I was not even sure what goldenrod was. I heard rural beekeepers talk about it (sometimes in disparaging terms) as a fall crop. Some said it was great for winter buildup, while others felt it might not be the best winter food for bees.
That last part I don’t buy. They say it crystallizes too quickly, making it difficult for the bees to consume. But all honey crystallizes eventually, and I routinely transfer year-old honey from heavy hives to light ones and they eat it right up. Or, its high ash content supposedly requires more bathroom breaks by the bees, possibly causing dysentery during long winter cold spells. I don’t know about that in more northern climes, but in the lower Midwest it doesn’t seem to be a problem.
In any case, after moving to the country I quickly learned what the fuss was about. I got home from work one September day, walked toward the garden and smelled something, um, interesting on the breeze. After following it about 30 yards to the hives, I understood. I couldn’t really describe it — still can’t — but I’d say it was a combination of all those things in my first paragraph.
One afternoon a few days later I checked the hives and found them socking away honey like it was springtime. And oddly enough, the aroma inside the hives was not nearly as pungent as that out front. After lifting a super and exposing bridge comb filled with honey, I jogged to the house for a plate and scraped off a swath of the honeycomb for when I was finished.
“Honey, come taste this,” I called to Diane when I got inside.
“What is it?” she asked as she entered the kitchen.
“I believe it’s goldenrod.” I popped a chunk into my mouth … and was instantly transported to my childhood.
“It’s good!” said Diane, a little surprised.
“Yes,” I replied wistfully. “It is.”
A September 1986 National Geographic article, “The Intimate Sense of Smell,” examined among other things the close link between this underappreciated sense and our memories. Taste, of course, is intimately linked with smell, so just as the aroma of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls can take one back to Christmas at Grandma’s, that taste of goldenrod honey took me back to my childhood home in central Wisconsin.
Obviously we’d had plenty of goldenrod there; just last month I saw it lining the roads throughout Iowa, Minnesota and Wisconsin on our drive up for a family gathering. And evidently Dad’s bees had been quite fond of it too.
The genus solidago, a member of the aster family (what isn’t?), consists of over 100 species. I can’t say for certain which one grows in our area, but I do know it gets a bad rap. Last year I was chatting with the owner of one of my apiary locations and she lamented the misery the ragweed was putting her through. “What does ragweed look like?” I asked, having never experienced that suffering. She immediately pointed to the goldenrod near the road.
Although honey bees are sometimes known to collect ragweed pollen (see our March 2019 cover), that substance is light and fluffy and easily carried on the breeze — unlike goldenrod pollen, which is dense and sticky and perfect for collection by honey bees and any number of other pollinators. And it’s not just the pollen; the nectar is a treat for butterflies, wasps and soldier beetles, among others.
But there’s no accounting for taste. I hear some beekeepers say they make sure to get all their supers off before that nasty goldenrod starts blooming. Not me — that’s when I put them back on.
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