The winters of 2013-2014 and 2014-2015 have been a double-whammy for bees. At least in our backyard. Damp autumns, soggy plus dangerously late springs. I'm not holding out much hope for the handful of hives barely visible in the backyard. And I'm not at all happy about paying a ridiculous price to basically start from scratch in less than a week.
See, the problem is that the go-to source for imported honeybees, a.k.a. the United States, is pretty much off-limits (some Queens excepted) because of parasite/disease issue (and no doubt the usual tribal stupidities besides...glad we passed NAFTA and all...). The most logical Canadian sources (Vancouver Island, southwestern British Colombia, and southern Nova Scotia) don't seem much interested in filling the gap. Or, for all I know, they're just overwhelmed. So obscene amounts of fossil fuels are expended to import honeybee "packages" (basically starter colonies) from--I kid you not--New Zealand.
From what I can see, the importers (at least the ones we're working with) are almost gratuitously conscientious about it all--even escorting the bees on their journey and making sure they're fed and all. I'm not knocking them...however much I might envy their trip to New Zealand this time of year.
Okay, so I'm willing to meet Mother Nature more than halfway by tilting at the windmill of keeping honeybees alive into the next spring by dint of making sure they're healthy and well fed (to the extent that such contrary beasties will allow me to intervene). I'm certainly not above hacking besides. (Mind you, with electronics--i.e. logging temperature & humidity readings--you're fighting the triple-whammy of unreliable power supplies, the even less reliable elements, and the bees' propensity to shellac everything that's not comb with a substance known as propolis. Making it all affordable for beekeepers working on precarious margins is another subject altogether.)
Those are the challenges. But I would take it kindly if the governments of Canada and the United States would, in tandem, extract their craniums from their backsides and figure out how allow healthy, cold-tolerant bees to cross the border in volume. Even back in Wisconsin, I found the reliance on southern (by which I mean less cold-hardy) bees silly. Particularly when some of the most notable pollinator research in the U.S. is being done by the University of Minnesota. I would argue that, all other things being equal, regional boundaries count for much more than national ones.
Given that one out of three bites we take has to be pollinated, my left brain fails to grok how this sort of thing is not a priority for any government. Particularly for a government so obsessed about national security that it has time to care about who wears what during a citizenship ceremony or is willing to bomb people on sketchy second-hand rationales or wants to classify anything threatening the economy of Canada as "terrorism. "
Showing posts with label Beekeeping. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Beekeeping. Show all posts
Friday, March 27, 2015
Friday, July 15, 2011
Frivolous Friday, 07.15.2011: BFAQ
An atypical first night of "babysitting bees" at the La Crosse County Fair, by many measures. The rain was mostly responsible for that. When I arrived shortly after 7pm, the Dairy building (where they sell the malts and ice cream) was packed. And--with all due respect to the talented wood-carvers, bees have a certain Fierce Creatures appeal that sometimes keeps people away, but mostly tends to draw them to the observation hive.
I like to believe that my previous incarnations of technical writer and Marketing Dept. henchwoman serve me well enough for the questions that come in. But, in the several years we've been doing this, I find that some questions are more commonly asked than others. So, while the answers are not cookie-cutter (for they are often springboards to interesting follow-up questions...which is where what I consider the "real" conversation takes place). But in the spirit of public service, here's a gloss.
What's up with CCD? Many folks strike up a conversation asking how the bees are doing--by which they mean, "Has anyone figured out the silver bullet for Colony Collapse Disorder yet?" Sadly, the answer is "No." For the simple reason that, to the best of our understanding, it's in some ways more a symptom than a disease. Monoculture (i.e. un-balanced nutrition), pesticides, migratory beekeeping, decades of fighting off parasitic mites and lethal "foulbrood" molds (i.e. the usual antibiotics arms-race), etc. come together. Rather like no one truly dies of AIDS--it's the secondary infection that kills them.
Which ones are the boys and which ones are the girls? Honeybees come in three kinds: Workers, drones and the Queen. The Queen exists to lay eggs--up to 2000 a day, which is more than her body weight. She is entirely dependent on the workers (her daughters) to feed, clean and otherwise care for her. The drones (the males) exist to mate with a Queen--more than likely from another hive. However, the workers usually kick them out of the hive to starve and/or freeze in the Fall, because they're useless at that point. The workers do everything else, from housekeeping to raising new brood to construction and carting resources, to guard duty, and finally to foraging for nectar and pollen.
How long do they live? Drones normally don't live past Autumn. Workers born in Spring/Summer live about six weeks before their wings wear out. Queens can last 2-3 years.
How does a honeybee become a Queen? Worker bees and Queen bees start out as a fertilized egg. The food on which the larva is fed determines everything. The high-protein "royal jelly" allows Queens to mature much faster (16 days from egg to hatching, as opposed to three weeks), and makes her larger. Drones, by contrast, are--Y-chromosome excepted--a perfect genetic copy of their mother.
How often are new Queens made? Surprisingly, "regime change" is typically up to the plebians, rather than the Monarchy. It could be a swarm (when the old Queen and about half the hive fly off to found a new colony) or a supercedure, when the old Queen dies or isn't performing. In either case, the workers choose suitably young larvae and not only feed them accordingly, but also build extra large cells in which the new Queens go from egg to larva to cocoon to Queen. The catch is that the first Queen to hatch typically stings her rivals to death. A few days later, she will go on her mating flight(s) and eventually settle down to lay eggs for the rest of her life.
How do you get the honey out? Bees collect nectar and partially break it down, then store it in the upper parts of the hive. Through evaporation, its water content is reduced to ~16%, at which point they cap it with wax to keep it from rehydrating. We take out the frames of honeycomb, remove the wax cap, and put the frames in an extractor, where centrifugal force pulls the honey out of the comb and out of a gate at the bottom where it can be strained and bottled.
A jar of honey I bought crystalized. Should I throw it out? No. Set the bottle in a pan of warm water, and problem solved. Unless the moisture content is too high, honey is the one food that should never spoil. (Just ask the Pharohs.)
How much honey do you get? Personally, our hives have ranged between zero and 160 pounds in a season. Mind you, the 160 came from one hive, while the one eight feet away did absolutely bupkis. Why? Because it's basically farming with six-legged livestock.
How often do you get stung? Me, less than once a year. And always, always because I did something stupid. (Dennis, who--per usual--does the heavy lifting, maybe once a year--but he's been known to do silly things, too.) Unlike yellowjackets, a honeybee can only sting you once, because for her it's a suicide mission. In other words: Stinging is a last resort--the "nuclear option," if you will. (And if you are stung by a honeybee, by all means, scrape out the stinger--fingernail, credit card, whatever--don't reach for the tweezers, because you'll just squeeze more venom into you.
I like to believe that my previous incarnations of technical writer and Marketing Dept. henchwoman serve me well enough for the questions that come in. But, in the several years we've been doing this, I find that some questions are more commonly asked than others. So, while the answers are not cookie-cutter (for they are often springboards to interesting follow-up questions...which is where what I consider the "real" conversation takes place). But in the spirit of public service, here's a gloss.
What's up with CCD? Many folks strike up a conversation asking how the bees are doing--by which they mean, "Has anyone figured out the silver bullet for Colony Collapse Disorder yet?" Sadly, the answer is "No." For the simple reason that, to the best of our understanding, it's in some ways more a symptom than a disease. Monoculture (i.e. un-balanced nutrition), pesticides, migratory beekeeping, decades of fighting off parasitic mites and lethal "foulbrood" molds (i.e. the usual antibiotics arms-race), etc. come together. Rather like no one truly dies of AIDS--it's the secondary infection that kills them.
Which ones are the boys and which ones are the girls? Honeybees come in three kinds: Workers, drones and the Queen. The Queen exists to lay eggs--up to 2000 a day, which is more than her body weight. She is entirely dependent on the workers (her daughters) to feed, clean and otherwise care for her. The drones (the males) exist to mate with a Queen--more than likely from another hive. However, the workers usually kick them out of the hive to starve and/or freeze in the Fall, because they're useless at that point. The workers do everything else, from housekeeping to raising new brood to construction and carting resources, to guard duty, and finally to foraging for nectar and pollen.
How long do they live? Drones normally don't live past Autumn. Workers born in Spring/Summer live about six weeks before their wings wear out. Queens can last 2-3 years.
How does a honeybee become a Queen? Worker bees and Queen bees start out as a fertilized egg. The food on which the larva is fed determines everything. The high-protein "royal jelly" allows Queens to mature much faster (16 days from egg to hatching, as opposed to three weeks), and makes her larger. Drones, by contrast, are--Y-chromosome excepted--a perfect genetic copy of their mother.
How often are new Queens made? Surprisingly, "regime change" is typically up to the plebians, rather than the Monarchy. It could be a swarm (when the old Queen and about half the hive fly off to found a new colony) or a supercedure, when the old Queen dies or isn't performing. In either case, the workers choose suitably young larvae and not only feed them accordingly, but also build extra large cells in which the new Queens go from egg to larva to cocoon to Queen. The catch is that the first Queen to hatch typically stings her rivals to death. A few days later, she will go on her mating flight(s) and eventually settle down to lay eggs for the rest of her life.
How do you get the honey out? Bees collect nectar and partially break it down, then store it in the upper parts of the hive. Through evaporation, its water content is reduced to ~16%, at which point they cap it with wax to keep it from rehydrating. We take out the frames of honeycomb, remove the wax cap, and put the frames in an extractor, where centrifugal force pulls the honey out of the comb and out of a gate at the bottom where it can be strained and bottled.
A jar of honey I bought crystalized. Should I throw it out? No. Set the bottle in a pan of warm water, and problem solved. Unless the moisture content is too high, honey is the one food that should never spoil. (Just ask the Pharohs.)
How much honey do you get? Personally, our hives have ranged between zero and 160 pounds in a season. Mind you, the 160 came from one hive, while the one eight feet away did absolutely bupkis. Why? Because it's basically farming with six-legged livestock.
How often do you get stung? Me, less than once a year. And always, always because I did something stupid. (Dennis, who--per usual--does the heavy lifting, maybe once a year--but he's been known to do silly things, too.) Unlike yellowjackets, a honeybee can only sting you once, because for her it's a suicide mission. In other words: Stinging is a last resort--the "nuclear option," if you will. (And if you are stung by a honeybee, by all means, scrape out the stinger--fingernail, credit card, whatever--don't reach for the tweezers, because you'll just squeeze more venom into you.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Frivolous Friday, 10.15.2010: Bees in the bonnet
A three-way conversation at the grocery store checkout tonight made me realize how very thoroughly beekeeping demolishes your chances of being mistaken for a "normal" person 100% of the time. Not that I mind, mind you--most days I'm lucky to be mistaken for a responsible adult. But a normal middle-aged American female? Fuggedabowdid...
Here are the most obvious symptoms, at least in my case:
Here are the most obvious symptoms, at least in my case:
- You talk to bees. As in, you stick your face six inches from the flower they're on and talk to them as if you're their mother assuring them that they're special, just like in the official Mom job description. And you don't really care who's weirded out.
- You develop a repertoire of stock "elevator pitch" answers. Mostly to questions that have to do with Colony Collapse Disorder or whether honeybees hibernate through the winter or how honey is harvested or whether you get stung.
- You buy sugar in ten-pound increments, and don't think to make up a lie to the question "What are you baking?" Mainly because you'd miss giving the checkout clerk and folks in line something wierd to talk about.
- You don't diplomatically stop yourself from correcting people when they refer to yellowjackets/wasps/etc. as "bees." Particularly in the context of what a nuisance yellowjackets are.
- You don't empty out the smoker before putting it in the back of the truck. Partly b/c it'll probably be out by the time you're home and partly to see whether anyone will notice that the vehicle seems to be on fire. (Odds are, usually not.)
- You wake up one day and realize that you have a head full of bee esoterica that simply will not help you survive the zombie apocalypse. Which somehow doesn't stop you from talking the ears off anyone who asks you about bees.
Monday, July 12, 2010
A thought on Fortune favoring the prepared
An interesting message was waiting on the home voice mail this evening. Apparently a honeybee swarm was hanging out in the maple tree next to the office. The caller, commendably, was trying to do the right thing, meaning not call the exterminator. So I've left a message on the gentleman's work voice mail, letting him know that we'll take care of it tomorrow, assuming that the bees haven't already found their long-term digs by then. Dennis' beesuit and the oversize IBM swag shirt I wear during our apian adventures are in the dryer now, largely because the lingering scent of smoke would be counter-productive in a swarm scenario.
If the swarm doesn't abscond and we don't make a complete mess of hiving this batch, there are a couple different scenarios that could play out. If it's a tiny swarm, likely for a normal July, the Ladykins and their Queen will shortly be on display at the La Crosse County Fair in the booth behind the Dairy Bar. (In case you were wondering: Why, yes, that is a shameless plug. So glad you asked...) A larger swarm--presaged by our caller's "I've never seen anything like it"--would spend some time in quarantine (to check for foulbrood and mites) before taking up residence next to the other two. In the either case, we have whatever options the two splits (i.e. starter hives with Russian-Carniolan hybrid Queens) care to offer us.
But the point is that we'd be a couple of dorks in beesuits, armed with a saw and a ladder and a cardboard box, were it not for the woodworking competence of Dennis. Dennis who disappears into the garage for a day or weekend and comes out with more-than-functional equipment. (Have I mentioned that I married a quiet genius?) Which, philosophically, more or less pinpoints the no-man's-land between my belief in lean processes and my understanding of the need for a bit of slop in inventory and schedules to roll with slightly freaked-out voicemails. It's not unlike the adage about always trusting your fellow man and always cutting the cards.
Don't get me wrong: I'm not counting on a successful hiving. (Heck, I'm probably jinxing the whole venture just by writing about it.) Because, in seven-plus years of being trained by bees, we've had a perfect record of coming up skunked in such ventures. (n00bs!) As I'm starting to suspect, honeybees are like the Ancient Gods: If you want to give them a good laugh, make plans. But if you want to disgust them, don't try at all.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
The flip-side of "Know thy enemy"
The 2010 summer meeting of the Wisconsin Honey Producer's Association was held today. I'm not politically-saavy, but I'm beginning to suspect that Wisconsin must carry some clout in the world of honeybees, given how guest speakers have traveled from halfway across the country for our sweet sakes.
This meeting the ante was upped a bit, as no less than the President of the American Beekeeping Federation (David Mendes) flew in from Boston to give two spiels, one more didactic and the other more of a "listening tour" session. What's particularly significant--quite apart from such a generous donation of time--is the fact that rapproachment continues between the ABF and the American Honey Producers Association (AHPA), which splintered off (with all due acrimoniousness) from the ABF sometime--I believe--in the 1960s.
In a sense, Mr. Mendes was in "enemy territory" in another sense. His outfit is almost exclusively dedicated to pollinating, with a secondary income from selling off the bees he doesn't have room for, and honey only a far-distant tertiary money-maker.
The history of American apiculture since the split has certainly been interesting--in the sense of the Chinese curse "May you live in interesting times." Highlights: The virulent bacterial disease known as American foulbrood pulled ahead in the evolutionary arms race against antibiotics. Africanized honeybees invaded the southern United States. The parasitic varroa mite population exploded onto the scene to devastate bee populations (kept, but especially wild) and begin its own arms race against pesticides. And in the last decade, colony collapse disorder appeared, triggering the ongoing debate on whether it's a disease or symptom.
Those are just the big hitters. The list of apian diseases, disorders and parasites numbers in the dozens. All the while, government budget cuts on various levels have closed bee lab after bee lab, and pushed the brunt of the research into a handful of university entomology or agriculture departments. And, to a lesser degree, private industry groups such as the ABF. Even the perennially cash-strapped WHPA sets aside a small sum to fund researchers.
In 20/20 hindsight, such R&D cuts couldn't have come at a worse time. I mean that largely from a scientific standpoint, but also from a human one. Bickering added to the competing interests of the beekeeping world certainly didn't help present the united front that would have been required for making the case for continued tax-funded investment in bee research. And, as important as the research itself, the investment payoff in the form of an ever-growing central repository of data, results and peer-reviewed recommendations representative of the entire United States, not just a handful of southern locales.
But such regrets are just so much honey through the gate. In 2007, the ABF and AHPA held their first joint national convention, and have tentatively planned to do so triannually. But, perhaps more hopeful for new solidarity among besieged beekeepers was the rapt attention to Mr. Mendes' summary of his year as a pollinating beekeeper, and the techniques used to minimize the stress on his hives. More hopeful still, the intense question-and-answer period following that.
Honeybees are infinitely amazing creatures, biologically and socially. But perhaps we wingless two-leggers can, after all, adapt to communicate and organize and cooperate in our own "hive" in ways that would astound even them. Here's to a more combined future.
This meeting the ante was upped a bit, as no less than the President of the American Beekeeping Federation (David Mendes) flew in from Boston to give two spiels, one more didactic and the other more of a "listening tour" session. What's particularly significant--quite apart from such a generous donation of time--is the fact that rapproachment continues between the ABF and the American Honey Producers Association (AHPA), which splintered off (with all due acrimoniousness) from the ABF sometime--I believe--in the 1960s.
In a sense, Mr. Mendes was in "enemy territory" in another sense. His outfit is almost exclusively dedicated to pollinating, with a secondary income from selling off the bees he doesn't have room for, and honey only a far-distant tertiary money-maker.
The history of American apiculture since the split has certainly been interesting--in the sense of the Chinese curse "May you live in interesting times." Highlights: The virulent bacterial disease known as American foulbrood pulled ahead in the evolutionary arms race against antibiotics. Africanized honeybees invaded the southern United States. The parasitic varroa mite population exploded onto the scene to devastate bee populations (kept, but especially wild) and begin its own arms race against pesticides. And in the last decade, colony collapse disorder appeared, triggering the ongoing debate on whether it's a disease or symptom.
Those are just the big hitters. The list of apian diseases, disorders and parasites numbers in the dozens. All the while, government budget cuts on various levels have closed bee lab after bee lab, and pushed the brunt of the research into a handful of university entomology or agriculture departments. And, to a lesser degree, private industry groups such as the ABF. Even the perennially cash-strapped WHPA sets aside a small sum to fund researchers.
In 20/20 hindsight, such R&D cuts couldn't have come at a worse time. I mean that largely from a scientific standpoint, but also from a human one. Bickering added to the competing interests of the beekeeping world certainly didn't help present the united front that would have been required for making the case for continued tax-funded investment in bee research. And, as important as the research itself, the investment payoff in the form of an ever-growing central repository of data, results and peer-reviewed recommendations representative of the entire United States, not just a handful of southern locales.
But such regrets are just so much honey through the gate. In 2007, the ABF and AHPA held their first joint national convention, and have tentatively planned to do so triannually. But, perhaps more hopeful for new solidarity among besieged beekeepers was the rapt attention to Mr. Mendes' summary of his year as a pollinating beekeeper, and the techniques used to minimize the stress on his hives. More hopeful still, the intense question-and-answer period following that.
Honeybees are infinitely amazing creatures, biologically and socially. But perhaps we wingless two-leggers can, after all, adapt to communicate and organize and cooperate in our own "hive" in ways that would astound even them. Here's to a more combined future.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Frivolous Friday, 06.11.2010: The bees-eye view
I imagine that the ghost of Bob LaFollette would be pleased to know that Wisconsin lives up to its Progressive heritage by being on the leading edge of a food purity issue, namely honey. According to an AP article in Wednesday's La Crosse Tribune, honey standards are now being considered at the national level. See "Shumer: Import rule needed to limit honey "fraud" for the deets.
As with the Wisconsin standard, it's a no-brainer that if bees didn't make it, it shouldn't be labeled as honey. And if it's poisoned with medications, pesticides or what-not, it has no place on store shelves. Taken together, the premise should be a win-win for both consumer and honey producer.
Granted, the "no-brainer" aspect has probably limited the breadth and depth of debate. But even so, not all voices have been heard--in fact, billions have had no say whatsoever in any policy-making. I'm of course referring to the bees themselves. So to rectify the situation--and add a six-legged perspective to the debate--let's turn to our Senior Apian Correspondent, Beatrice.
fivechimera: Thanks for joining us, Beatrice.
Beatrice: Thanks so much for having me. Oh, and do call me "Bea."
fivechimera: Okay. So, Bea, as I understand it, sometimes your humans will feed you sugar water or corn syrup and even soy-based pollen to tide you through the cold spells. Frankly, is the species even affected enough to have a position on a regulatory definition of honey?
Beatrice: Oh, definitely. Obviously, some of the taint in adulterated honey comes from over-medication. That's something we'd like to see eliminated entirely. But at the end of the season, it really boils down to craftsmanship and letting nature shine through.
fivechimera: Craftsmanship? Meaning like a winemaker respecting the terroir and vintage?
Beatrice: Exactly. What two-leggers don't seem to understand is that, other than seeing the hive survive another year, the quality of the product is really the only other reward.
fivechimera: I guess I've never heard it put in quite such stark terms before. Would you care to let readers know a little more about that?
Beatrice: Well, I don't mean to complain. But maybe I should translate things into human terms context. Imagine that, right after you're born, the first thing you have to do is clean your room. Which you share with upwards to 60,000 of your sisters, half-sisters and half-brothers. You graduate from being a housekeeper to raising the next generation of brood to come along. Later, you might end up putting your life on the line guarding your home. Finally, you graduate to grocery runner until you wear out and/or something eats you. All of which will likely happen in about six weeks. And the sum total of your life's work will average out to one-twelfth of a teaspoon.
fivechimera: And having some idiot human completely ruin your handiwork with chemicals or impersonate it with corn syrup--after all that--I can see how that would be absolutely infuriating.
Beatrice: The human concern about parasites and diseases is completely understandable--trust me, we're even more concerned. The life I just described--that only happens if we're one of the lucky ones. If a parasitic varroa mite crawls into our cell when we're still a pupa, we might be born without wings at all. That's scary enough, even without CCD. Even so, there's a limit to how much good chemicals and sugar water can do for us. They're no subsititute for good practice and having decent working conditions in the first place.
fivechimera: I think that sentiment's something even we bi-peds can get behind, Beatrice. Is there anything else you'd like us to know?
Beatrice: I think the perception is that if it's a flower, it's all good for us. But the reality is, when we have the choice, we're actually quite deliberate about what we bring back for food. That's something we'd recommend to any species.
fivechimera: Absolutely. Well, I believe that we're just about out of time here, but, Bea, thank you again for sharing your unique perspective on our human doings.
Beatrice: It's been my pleasure.
As with the Wisconsin standard, it's a no-brainer that if bees didn't make it, it shouldn't be labeled as honey. And if it's poisoned with medications, pesticides or what-not, it has no place on store shelves. Taken together, the premise should be a win-win for both consumer and honey producer.
Granted, the "no-brainer" aspect has probably limited the breadth and depth of debate. But even so, not all voices have been heard--in fact, billions have had no say whatsoever in any policy-making. I'm of course referring to the bees themselves. So to rectify the situation--and add a six-legged perspective to the debate--let's turn to our Senior Apian Correspondent, Beatrice.
fivechimera: Thanks for joining us, Beatrice.
Beatrice: Thanks so much for having me. Oh, and do call me "Bea."
fivechimera: Okay. So, Bea, as I understand it, sometimes your humans will feed you sugar water or corn syrup and even soy-based pollen to tide you through the cold spells. Frankly, is the species even affected enough to have a position on a regulatory definition of honey?
Beatrice: Oh, definitely. Obviously, some of the taint in adulterated honey comes from over-medication. That's something we'd like to see eliminated entirely. But at the end of the season, it really boils down to craftsmanship and letting nature shine through.
fivechimera: Craftsmanship? Meaning like a winemaker respecting the terroir and vintage?
Beatrice: Exactly. What two-leggers don't seem to understand is that, other than seeing the hive survive another year, the quality of the product is really the only other reward.
fivechimera: I guess I've never heard it put in quite such stark terms before. Would you care to let readers know a little more about that?
Beatrice: Well, I don't mean to complain. But maybe I should translate things into human terms context. Imagine that, right after you're born, the first thing you have to do is clean your room. Which you share with upwards to 60,000 of your sisters, half-sisters and half-brothers. You graduate from being a housekeeper to raising the next generation of brood to come along. Later, you might end up putting your life on the line guarding your home. Finally, you graduate to grocery runner until you wear out and/or something eats you. All of which will likely happen in about six weeks. And the sum total of your life's work will average out to one-twelfth of a teaspoon.
fivechimera: And having some idiot human completely ruin your handiwork with chemicals or impersonate it with corn syrup--after all that--I can see how that would be absolutely infuriating.
Beatrice: The human concern about parasites and diseases is completely understandable--trust me, we're even more concerned. The life I just described--that only happens if we're one of the lucky ones. If a parasitic varroa mite crawls into our cell when we're still a pupa, we might be born without wings at all. That's scary enough, even without CCD. Even so, there's a limit to how much good chemicals and sugar water can do for us. They're no subsititute for good practice and having decent working conditions in the first place.
fivechimera: I think that sentiment's something even we bi-peds can get behind, Beatrice. Is there anything else you'd like us to know?
Beatrice: I think the perception is that if it's a flower, it's all good for us. But the reality is, when we have the choice, we're actually quite deliberate about what we bring back for food. That's something we'd recommend to any species.
fivechimera: Absolutely. Well, I believe that we're just about out of time here, but, Bea, thank you again for sharing your unique perspective on our human doings.
Beatrice: It's been my pleasure.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)