Although sugar syrup must be the simplest concoction in the history of man, it generates questions galore, many containing complex ratios, weights, and equations. When I make syrup, I simply dump some sugar in a bucket, add some lukewarm water till it looks right, and stir. When the crystals dissolve, I pour it in a feeder. Easy peasy and no math needed.
Why we feed syrup
We feed sugar syrup to honey bees in the spring to help new colonies get started, especially those that began as packaged bees. This feed gives them a leg up because instead of having to forage for a source of energy, they can eat at home and begin building a nursery right away. Colonies that barely survived the winter can also benefit from syrup.
In the fall, honey bees colonies that failed to store sufficient honey for winter (or were over-harvested) may be fed syrup in the hope they can make up the food deficit before cold weather arrives.
For generations, beekeepers have tried to help the bees along by tweaking the ratio of sugar to water in the syrup. For spring feed we try to simulate nectar by using a light syrup. In the fall we try to save the bees some work by feeding syrup with a much higher sugar content. A thicker syrup means the bees have to do less work to get it cured and capped.
Humans decided on the ratios, not bees
But here’s the catch: the sugar-to-water ratios we use are man-made conventions. The honey bees did not tell us what to provide, and they don’t carry mini hydrometers to test for specific gravity.
The sugar-to-water ratio in naturally-occurring nectar ranges from the impossibly low to super high. Honey bees prefer sweeter nectar, a preference which causes them to flock to things like apples, with nectar containing about 40% sugar, and avoid things like pears, with nectar containing about 15% sugar. But each plant has a different sugar content from every other plant, and even the weather, the time of day, and the age of the flower make a difference.
So while the honey bees are out foraging on every combination of sugar to water you could possibly imagine, well-intentioned beekeepers are home micromanaging their syrup, measuring and stirring and tweaking to arrive at some magical ratio that the bees don’t give a rip about. If they could roll their large compound eyes, they would.
Guidelines are not rules
I can certainly understand using a guideline like 1:1 or 2:1 as a place to start. Those ratios are easy to remember and palatable to the bees, so there is nothing wrong with using them. But we must remember they are guidelines, not laws the bees etched on stone tablets.
These guidelines are intended to produce a syrup that resembles an “average” nectar, but averages are often theoretical. I just read that the average American woman of childbearing age has 1.9 children. But how many women do you know with 1.9 children? Furthermore, how many average woman do you know with 1.9 children?
My point is that even if 1:1 syrup was an accurate mathematical average of all nectars, it would still not represent any particular nectar in the real world. So when people tell me they tossed their syrup because they added too much sugar, or spent all night trying to figure out how to measure the ingredients to make five gallons, it is my turn for eye rolling. Close is good enough. Even not so close is good enough.
So much to learn
Beekeeping is complex and I understand that, but I think it’s strange that I receive about four times as many sugar syrup questions as I do Varroa mite questions. While miscalculated syrup is meaningless to a colony, poorly managed Varroa can destroy it. Usually, by the time I get the mite question, the colony is already gone.
It makes me wonder what we as beekeepers, writers, speakers, and presenters are doing wrong. How can we help new beekeepers sort out what is important and what isn’t? I keep thinking that explaining why—and giving specific reasons and examples—will help, but I see mixed results. Any thoughts?