Michael's Honey

on weekend afternoons, michael huber opens the tailgate of his pickup like an altar to the sun, setting up shop in an empty lot along highway one, about thirty winding minutes north of point reyes. for more than forty years he has tended his bees, and in turn they have tended him, their work bottled in rows of glowing amber that catch the light like liquid late afternoon.

i discovered michael by chance, the way you find something meant for you only when you’re not looking for it. i rarely stop for roadside vendors, but that day the stillness of his setup pulled me in. stacked before him were jars of orange blossom, clover, and cantaloupe, each with its own character. my heart, though, settled on the sage, pale and delicate, tasting like the hills in summer.

now i’ve made it a quiet ritual. each morning i stir a small spoonful of that sage honey into my warm espresso, watch it dissolve, then fold in oat milk and ice. it is a simple, grounding moment i look forward to before the day begins.

michael once sold his honey at berkeley bowl, but he has since stepped away from his only wholesale account to work solely on his own terms. it feels, in a way, like the beginning of a gentle farewell. so if you can, take that curving drive up the coast, breathe in the salt air, and seek him out while you still can.