The Bee's Knees

A touch of tart swaddled in velvety sweetness, Bee's Knees, could you possibly be called anything else? What's in a name? Who cares. What's in a Bee's Knees? Now you're talkin'.

I have a special kinship with the honeybee. In part, my bond is based on being a Leo. Since my star is the sun (top that, eh?), and the honeybee loves himself some sunshine, it's a natural alliance. I love their furry little coats and the fact that they are quite officious workers, yet still vindictive little fucks. Couple that with my recent discovery that the honeybee is basically "a flying penis" (thanks, ol' Mr Insight, for that pointed tidbit), and perhaps you understand my affection for the little bug. Also, as previously noted and often revisited, my favorite spirit of all is gin.

The Bee's Knees is what I wish cough-syrup tasted like :: sweet, but not too sweet, refreshingly citrus, soothing with its kiss of honey and purifying with its cool gin chill. Then again, if cough syrup tasted like this, I'd be licking subway poles around the city just to catch the constant cold. Perhaps things happen for a reason.

THE BEE'S KNEES

2 oz. of Plymouth gin
1/2 oz. of honey syrup *
1/2 oz. of fresh-squeezed lemon juice

*honey syrup :: mix equal parts honey and boiling water,
stir until honey is completely dissolved, then refrigerate until cold

garnish with a lemon twist and serve cold,
on the rocks in a double tumbler glass



* * *

And, an old timey comic for kicks, found in the Fort Wayne Sentinel circa May 5th, 1914::

It's too small to really see, but basically the skinny man asks the fat man for Bee's Knees for dinner. The fat man tried to procure them, and in the end, after chasing that buzz, they both flee the scene, defeated and stung.

Sounds a hell of a lot like my Monday night... Maybe someone should check the bathroom door.