Maple Syrup: the Flavor of Earliest Spring

"Let's do a taste test," John said, holding the pint jug of maple syrup someone sent to us. 

I was game. The last taste test I took part in was to identify different brands of Malta, a non-alcoholic beverage I'm not particularly fond of. I flunked that test completely. But the taste test John proposed was one I was certain to ace: pure maple syrup vs. my own homemade. 

Maple syrup, in its purity, is part of the fabric of my childhood. I didn't know syrup was kin to liquid gold when I was eight and applying it liberally to pancakes. I always made sure I had enough to puddle on my plate so I could eat it with a spoon after the pancake was gone. Then, if the syrup pitcher was empty, we simply refilled it from a gallon brought up from the storeroom in the basement. This endless supply was possible because my grandpa had a sugar maple woods, and each year the extended family worked together to make syrup. 

We did it the old-fashioned way by hanging tin buckets on the trees.

In March 2006, The Elkhart Truth, a local paper, read: "Grandchildren tromp through the woods on February and March afternoons, crunching fallen leaves with rubber boots. They grab buckets hanging from the 800 or so taps on trees and dump clear liquid into larger buckets. Sometimes sloshing sap onto the hems of their dresses or pants, they carry them to a tank mounted on a trailer and pulled over rutted trails by the Farmall H tractor their grandfather got when he started farming." 

It takes about 40 gallons of sap to make a gallon of maple syrup. That is a lot of buckets. 

Gathering sap always includes mud. Lots of mud. The Elkhart Truth reporter didn't witness anyone losing a boot one pace back in sticky mud, almost an annual event. Nor did they follow us at night in the rare times when rain was imminent and sap was gathered with flashlights and lanterns. Brambles are invisible at night.

When the tank on the trailer was full, it was emptied into a large holding tank at the sugar shanty. 

Ah, the sugar shanty. There is nothing quite like being chilled and walking into the sugar shack. It was steamy and warm and smelled pleasantly of syrup and wood smoke. A fire, fueled by the wood Grandpa cut while cleaning up the woods, burned hot beneath the evaporator. 

My dad and brothers took their turns boiling sap far into the night during the prime of the season. Boiling had to be done almost around the clock (except on Sunday) in order to make room for more. 

And then, finally, there was syrup. Gallons and gallons of amber sweetness. To me, it is so much more than an expensive pancake accompaniment. It is tangible evidence of my happy childhood. 

With that in mind, you will understand why I knew the maple syrup taste test was my moment to shine. Eyes closed in readiness for the taste test, I could imagine myself enfolded in the warm, steamy interior of the sugar shanty. John gave me my first bite. I swallowed and smiled. I tasted the second option and froze. The smoky sweet memories evaporated and dismay rose within me. I had no idea which of the two was the real deal. And I flunked the test. 

In the deep bitterness of the moment, I knew it was past time for me to go back and visit my grandpa’s woods and the sugar shanty.

Or, come to think of it, maybe I should market my own syrup.

Maple Syrup photo sourced from Pixabay. All other photos are my own.