Someone in our last post wrote this:

It also raises the question of one’s self, and that’s a hornet’s nest we’ll kick another day

The human self is an overwhelming reality. I know this because I have one. Or am one? I’m not sure which it is. As you can see, it’s also a complicated concept. Rather than bogging down in either, let’s look instead at the other animal in that sentence: hornets. 

Hornets are large, eusocial wasps. Eusociality is a cooperative form of society that involves the shared caring for offspring, generational overlapping, and a division of labor, often along reproductive capacities. Ants are another type of eusocial organism, but this post is about hornets and that’s the last you’ll hear of ants today. 

Nests are hornet homes. They look like congealed, spilled cement and are made from chewed-up plants and woods. The building is made singlehandedly each spring by the queen, an impressive feat that cements her elevated status. Depending on the species, the average nest contains several hundred hornets.

Hornets are generally not aggressive, but they become upset when their nests are disturbed. I find this relatable, for I also become upset when someone kicks my home. From this we arrive at the origins of the phrase: To kick a hornet’s nest, something you should never ever do. 

Though they’re pollinators, hornets do not make honey. Honey is a delicious sweetener as well as an idiom we use to refer to those we care about. That sweetness is metaphorical: most humans are salty when licked, especially if they’ve recently exerted themselves. Calling someone “honey” is appropriate when talking to romantic interests, children and pets, though certain bartenders and diner-servers are permitted to use the term freely. (These people intuitively know who they are, and if you have to ask, you’re definitely not one of them.)

When I was in my early 20’s I lived in southern France. I earned the occasional traveling cash tutoring kids in English. To make this fun, I tried to go beyond the average textbook (“See Jill run”) by encouraging kids to bring in music they liked so we could discuss the lyrics. One boy brought in Will Smiths’ Gettin’ Jiggy With It, which has the line, “Honey honey come ride…” Translating that literally was a dud: miel is the French word for honey, but the French don’t call their sweethearts “miel” (They also don’t call them Miele, a brand of vacuum cleaner from Germany). Instead, they call their sweethearts Mon petite chou (among other terms), a phrase that sounds very similar to Mon Petite Shoe, a lovely homophonic play that also used to be a kids’ shoe store in Seattle. 

Mon petite chou literally means, My little cabbage, and makes as much sense to our ears are honey does to theirs. 

Like many people of a certain age, when I was young my grandmother insisted upon serving Brussels sprouts. These are cute, tiny cabbages that look like peonies. Grandma wasn’t a multifaceted cook, and 1: never peeled away the outer leaves of the sprouts, which are extremely bitter, and 2: never deviated from boiling them to a pulpy state of mush. They were awful and kept me away from this delicious vegetable for decades. 

Here are a few tips  when preparing Brussels sprouts at home:

Start by peeling them. Do this by removing the stalked end with a paring knife, then pull away several layers of leaves. Depending on their size, cut them in halves or quarters. Sauté them in butter or olive oil and garlic, but keep in mind that they play nicely with bacon and related cured meats. Cook them until you can pierce their bodies with a fork. It’s better to under-cook than over-cook these little choux, and they should never be reduced to mush. Add pine nuts, pomegranates, or top with parmesan cheese. Follow this with a drizzle of olive oil and a scattering of salt. 

Instead of calling one another “honey,” my mom and step-dad decided to substitute “Bee poopy” as an endearment. One lesson I’ve taken away from this is that you can never judge a couple’s relational health from the outside. For the record: bees make honey through regurgitation, soo honey isn’t poop, it’s vomit.

I eat honey quite often. It’s a lovely addition to most everything and helps relieve allergies. 

I find honey to be Eu-, a Greek prefix that means Good. The opposite of Good is usually called Bad. Our Greek friends called this Kakos. Kakos derives from Kakka and means poop, which, once again, is not how honey is made. We hope you’ll keep this history in mind the next time you’re trying to avoid swearing by telling a child it’s time to go kakka.

The goodness (Eu-) of Eusociality is highly subject-specific. Within a nest, eusociality structures life so that the entire hive collaborates on such an integrated level that scientists call it a super-organism. That’s super for hornets but can be terrifying for others, especially those whoa might kick a hornets’ nest. In other words, what’s Eu- for hornets is Kakka for humans. Depending on how you look at things, humans can be seen as eusocial. If you took this approach, it’s unclear if the same relationship between Eu and Kakka mentioned above would apply: that is, would Eusociality, defined as a good for humans, necessarily be kakka for hornets? It’s for the answering of questions such as this that we all ought to hope there’s a heaven where ‘all will be revealed.’

I don’t know how a hornet experiences its-self. It’s worth wondering if hornets even have selves to experience. Throughout history, many have argued that animals don’t have selves or souls—words we’ll use interchangeably for now as separating the threads of that tapestry is beyond my abilities. Those theories are largely outdated as science has demonstrated the obvious: non-human animals do communicate, are (eu)social, practice empathy, etc. Doing such things does not mean hornets have souls, and rarely have such concerns prevented us from spraying them with pesticides when they threaten our backyard BBQs. 

Anyone who’s ever been stung by a bee knows that it hurts. Hornet stings are like bee stings, only worse, and the simple rule of thumb for avoiding them was mentioned above: Don’t kick hornets’ nests!

I never did well on the analogy portion of most standardized tests, but here’s an attempt to make up ground: 

A bee is to George W Bush like a hornet is to Donald Trump.

The difference is in the numerical capacities involved. W’s capacity to say something stupid had a low ceiling: Fool me once… In contrast, Trump can say something moronic a seemingly-infinite number of times while simultaneously never once displaying any sense of shame or embarrassment. In its own twisted way, this is almost as impressive as the queen hornet building the entire nest. 

That was cathartic, so let’s try another one. First, some background information: bees can only sting once while hornets are capable of stinging multiple times. 

Bees are to male orgasms what hornets are to female orgasms. 

When it comes to sexual orgasm, men are (usually) one-and-done while women can roll on and on like breakers pounding a shoreline. The ability to multiply is an enviable trait when considered from the perspective of sexual pleasure, but less ideal when envisioned from the viewpoint of stings. Of course, that statement is as subject-specific as the Eu- and Kakka of social organizing mentioned above: I don’t like that hornets can sting multiple times, but they probably consider it a virtue when defending their nests from being kicked. 

The exception to this are any masochists who get off on being stung. For them, hornet stings are the bee’s knees. 

Bee’s have more joints in their legs than we do, and although I’m not a certified entomologist I don’t see any reason why those tissues can’t be called knees. Bee’s knees was a very hip phrase a hundred years ago. Sadly, it’s stiffened with age and gone arthritic, and you rarely hear it anymore. 

Bee’s Knees is also a delicious cocktail made from gin, lemon juice, and honey. To make this drink, follow the classic 2:1:1 ratio (2-parts gin : 1-part lemon juice : 1-part honey syrup), shaken hard over plenty of ice and you’ll be good. Keep in mind that you may have to modify this ratio depending on how viscous you make your honey syrup (Honey is too thick and must be reduced with hot water). Remember that cocktails crave bitters, so don’t shy away from a couple dashes of orange bitters. And always, ALWAYS! add a touch of saline to your sour drinks.