Sugar in the blood

It's kind of like fly-fishing, in a way.

Our hand pump broke.  So our no-electricity-all-hand-powered operation (save for the propane used to finish the syrup and to light the house at night) became even more hand-powered; armed with a kitchen pot, we scooped out gallons and gallons of sap and fed it into carriers which we then transported, over the battened down snow paths, to the collector.  Then we climbed a ladder one handed, 5 gallons or so in the other, and poured that into our 35 gallon collector.

Tending the fire became harder as the season went on.  We broke into the wood we'd split last year which we never had time to stack.  It wasn't dry.  So we went back to our old method of chopping it to slivers, placing it on the sides of the barrel stove bonfire-like, quickly removing it when it caught on fire, and otherwise baking it to dry.  This supposed we'd gotten enough of a fire going to throw out this much heat.  Eyeing the nice, old pine boards we use to stack wood in the basement, we hauled a few down to the sugar house and chopped these up, too.  "Doesn't this feel like we're burning the furniture to stay warm?" Lionel asked once.  "Shut up," I said, "and make me more."

It's like fishing in that you can spend long hours of the day outside, in one place, doing nothing (except waving a stick or tending a fire) waiting for something to happen.  You know there's fish there, under the roiling water.  You know there's syrup, hiding under the foam.  The foam itself reminds me of the La Poile on a hot day, where it collects in the eddies and trout hide under its surface.  If you place your fly just right you can fool them.

When I'm not tending the fire, chopping the wood, running to get more sap, I scoop the foam out.  It's a down-time activity.

Last year's sugar season we made 3.88 gallons of the stuff, still more than we can eat in a year.  I was eight months pregnant at the time, and in the manner of all jaded nay-saying parents, my colleagues informed me gleefully that I wouldn't be doing this for a while.   This year, albeit with the sacrifices of my mother and my aunt and a few other baby-sitters, and a rotating shift on the weekdays between Lionel and myself, we've made six and a half, more than we've ever made.  You'd think my friends would know by now that I never take no for an answer.

Now the season is over, the snow (still two feet deep in places) is finally melting, the daffodils and tulips are coming up, and we're turning our attention to other things.  Mud season is nigh upon us.  There's little left to do with the sugaring operation save clean the pan and the equipment, label the product, and dream about next year.   Maybe next year we'll catch the big old fish who hides in the shallows, just out of reach of our lines.  Maybe we'll play our cards right and finally prove to ourselves that our little 2-by-4 pan needs an upgrade, a real sugar house , and running water.  You never know.

tags: maple