I always get up first to make breakfast. Alone in the kitchen, I’ll often have a conversation with the bread. After all, we have been intimate. It was just yesterday my hands were in the dough. It was just last night I swaddled it in a freshly ironed cloth, whispering of the tomorrow’s surprise — lavender honey. 

We made a trip to Valensole yesterday in search of the best. Nestled between fields of lavender, it wasn’t really a chance we were taking. There would be honey — Miel de lavande. A couple of small arrows at ankle height on a long stretch of gravel would lead us there on this Tuesday. After several second guesses, we would find the locked door of the farm house that said open Wednesdays and Saturdays. Still we jiggled the handle. We had come this far. We looked at each other and read the sign again. I cupped my hands around my face and pushed it up against the glass. I could see the jars of honey. We jiggled the handle again in disbelief. I don’t know how long we stood there. How can you measure time without honey that is just within reach? That’s when he walked through the shadows. Barefooted and bonjouring, he opened the door. Maybe the angels sang, or was the birds? We quickly stepped inside before he could change his mind. I didn’t need the spoonful he offered to know that I would love it, but I took it anyway. It lingered on my tongue and rolled my eyes into the part of my brain where pleasure lives. I could only say yes. Of course he didn’t take credit cards. What were we thinking? But Dominique saved the day with his checkbook, and I coddled the kilo of lavender honey back to the car. 

How could I not share the story with the bread as it toasted this morning. Even the coffee pot seemed to be listening. 

Needless to say, it didn’t disappoint.  Lavender honey on homemade bread. Wow. I smile at the silver medal from 2024’s Paris competition, proudly displayed on the honey jar — and laugh — because for me, us, it’s nothing but gold.