Not all capped honeycombs look alike, not even close. Some appear soggy, somber, and tacky, while others seem pillowy, luminous, and natty. Before becoming a beekeeper, I always shopped for combs that were bright and cheery, those that reflected light like new-fallen snow. And although the honey tasted similar from comb to comb, its appearance was important to me, a subtle quality distinction based on aesthetics alone.
The terms “wet” and “dry” loosely describe these two types. In truth, both types of cappings are perfectly dry to the touch, neither leaky nor sticky. But psychologically, the wet ones seem substandard, as if something went wrong. Instead of looking fresh, the wet combs look overheated or old. Sort of world-weary.
Over time, I came to accept that combs could look quite different, but I never evaluated how it happened — or even what happened — until decades later when I assigned my very own bees the task of producing flawless combs of honey.
New cappings, wet and dry
Once I became a beekeeper, I began my comb-honey education with Kelley squares, those comely little basswood section boxes that, after harvest, fit into bespoke cardboard containers with clear plastic windows. You cannot imagine how elated I was with my very first batch, every section box brimming and gorgeous, all the corners filled. Best, the cappings were dry and bright, almost white.
At that point, I still thought dry cappings occurred by default. So, based on my initial success, I assumed that if I followed the directions for making failsafe comb honey, all the cappings would be delightfully appealing.
Only when I opened a super from a second hive did I encounter wet, slippery-looking combs — every one of them. I was confused. After all, these combs were also not stale or damaged, and I had been religiously careful with them. So I began looking for another explanation, thinking that if I could discover the reason for the wet, gooey look, I could prevent subpar combs.
The dry premium
Although I didn’t find a quick explanation for why cappings were different, I learned that my obsession with dry cappings wasn’t just a weird personal quirk. Instead, I learned that consumers rabidly hunt for them, routinely sifting through product displays to find the one perfect comb.
Furthermore, I discovered that the appearance of cappings was seldom a hot topic among beekeepers. The typical beekeeper thinks little about them because, come harvest time, he simply whips out the uncapping knife and blithely slices the caps into a bucket. Wet, dry, gorgeous, or ugly, they all get mashed together …
