The Sacraments of March

Some year I’ll make enough maple syrup to justify my own label. I’m thinking of calling it “Senseless Syrup.”

I tapped a dozen trees up here at our place in the U.P. and then I had to wait a couple weeks to get enough sap. In the meantime I had to return to Madison and when I got back up here on Sunday all the sap bags were solid ice, winter having decided to finally show up after all just for a few laughs. So, I hauled them into the cabin to thaw over night. The condensation from the bags dripped sticky water all over the floor. I was not off to a good start.

This is my second go at it. Last year all my efforts boiled down (literally) to less than a pint of syrup. This year I doubled my output. And the product violates all the rules of fine syrup. It’s dark and cloudy instead of what it should be, which is clear and light. I have a friend who produces syrup just like that and I get a bottle of that every year and, seriously, who consumes more than a bottle of syrup in 12 months?

So why do I do it?

You might as well ask why people climb mountains or jump out of airplanes or hike the Appalachian Trail or write novels or vote for Donald Trump. It can’t explained. It just is.

For one thing, it gives a guy something to do in March (or this year, in February). There’s a reason that God placed St. Patrick’s Day and, much later, the NCAA basketball tournament in March. With what’s going on outside, this is a great time of the year to have a beer and watch TV. Making syrup gets us outside, but not for too long. Basically, you go out in the woods, drill a hole in a tree, tap in a little drain, hang a bag on it and move on to the next tree. Then you go back inside, pour yourself a beer and switch on some hoops.

Then there’s the excitement of perfect sapping days. That would be a nice crisp sunny day of about 45 degrees following a night when the temperature dipped below freezing. Especially on the south facing side of the trees the sap drips steadily into your collection bags. I know, it sounds like watching a Chevy rust in your driveway. Your 18-year old self knew it would come to this someday. It’s true that life goes on long after the thrill of livin’ is gone. But really, try it sometime.

Then there’s the excitement of collecting your harvest. You pour your bags into your collection buckets. It looks like water, except for a slight sugar content which becomes apparent when it gets dripped all over your floor and dries to a sticky sheen that makes the soles of your shoes produce a crackling sound as you walk down your hallway. It’s great!

Next you boil it down. And boil it down. And boil it down. It took me about a day and a half to boil down about 15 gallons of sap to about two pints of syrup. (Note for next year: collect more sap.) While boiling I worked on my book, read a book, fiddled with a jigsaw puzzle on my kitchen table, napped and spent more time than I should have watching sap boil. My 18-year old self just knew that when I became 65 I would spend my days watching sap boil. Well, ya know, beats the alternative, kid. Dead men don’t boil sap. Remember that.

And then there’s the big moment. Making syrup is like flying a 707 across the Atlantic. It’s hours of boredom followed by tense moments bringing in the monster plane for a safe landing in Paris. After a day and a half of boring boiling, sap magically becomes syrup in the course of a few precious minutes. When it reaches 219 degrees (you’re actually supposed to adjust that number by the elevation above sea level at your location, but nobody does) it’s syrup. Let it go much longer and it’s candy at best and a half hour of scrubbing the pan at worst. Another test is to dip a spatula into the stuff. If it comes off in sheets, it’s done. I dipped. It sheeted. I pulled the stuff off the heat at 215 degrees — must have been the sea level thing.

But I’ll give myself this. It tastes really good. I had it on my pancakes this morning along with some leftover Irish butter from St. Patrick’s Day dinner. It was terrific.

Well, excuse me. I’ve got to finish my brackets and get those in. Brackets and syrup. The sacraments of March.