Fancy Farmerettes

These perfect little hexagons are brought to you by our hardworking honey bees. Somehow honey bees know how to make cells in this perfect shape at just the right size to create the necessary structure for brood, and nectar and pollen deposits in the hive.

The typical hive frame lasts about 3-5 years, after which beekeepers discard and replace them with brand new frames. We aim to replace about 10-15% of our frames every year.

The good thing is new frames are clean, disease-free, and solid; unfortunately, bees have a lot of work to do with a new frame, as they have to build up the wax comb on the foundation. In the pictures above, we have chosen frames with black foundation for our brood chambers. The black background allows us to see eggs much easier than yellow foundation. (We will post more about this later!)

As nature lovers, beekeepers, and educators, we are continually delighted to be reminded of how mathematics and nature so often intersect. Many years ago, Veronica had a roommate who was completing a doctorate in math. When she asked him why he chose math, he replied, “Because math is beautiful.” And we think these gorgeous hexagons exemplify just that.

https://www.instagram.com/reel/DYpZJauuhVN/?igsh=YTZ1OTdxd3lscjIx

This Jar of Honey Is 3,000 Years Old. And Still Edible. Bread molds. Meat rots. Milk sours. Honey just… waits. In 1922, sealed jars of honey were found in King Tutankhamun's tomb. But the real shock? A 5,500-year-old jar found in a Bronze Age tomb in Georgia. Chemically intact. Honey's secret: water content below 18%, pH between 3 and 4.5, and a bee-produced enzyme that releases hydrogen peroxide into every drop. Bacteria can't grow. Fungus can't form. Time doesn't touch it. While we measure life in decades, bees engineered a substance that doesn't recognize time. Save this for the next time someone tells you nothing lasts forever. Follow @rootxdeep for more secrets hiding in plain sight. #sciencefacts #didyouknow #mindblown #honeyfacts #beebiology

You know, my impulsivity is usually my superpower—until it isn’t.
Last Wednesday afternoon, it made me a hero. I was driving up Indian Line north of Hagersville and spotted a native snapping turtle stranded right on the centre line. Without a second thought, I pulled over and rescued it. Total success. Leaping before looking honestly works out for me more often than you'd think.
But just four hours later, the darker side of that same trait caught up with me.
It was just before 8:00 PM when I noticed one of my beehives had swarmed. To be completely honest with you, I was already harbouring this simmering, impulsive anger at my partner because she hadn't checked the four hives that had overwintered and were showing obvious signs of overpopulation. Fueled by that irritation and rushing against the fading light, I made a totally reckless choice: I grabbed the net, bypassed my protective suit, and went in completely unprotected.
The bees did exactly what bees do. They attacked me, getting hopelessly tangled in my hair and delivering six stings straight to my temple and scalp.
It got bad, fast. I went into immediate anaphylaxis. Even after I deployed an EpiPen, my partner still had to call an ambulance. I ended up spending the next several hours hooked up to a four-hour potassium drip, and I didn't finally get discharged from the hospital until 3:30 AM.
Don’t feel sorry for me, I knew better. But lesson learned: I absolutely must wear a bee suit and full protection from now on, and I have to carry an EpiPen with me at all times.
I guess when I act fast out of instinct and empathy, I save a turtle. But when I act fast out of anger, I end up in an ambulance. The moral of my story is clear: I leap before I look. I just need to start making sure it's not into a swarm of bees.
Irene