Mazinaw Musings March 20, 2002
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Memories from a '40 ouncer'It is that time of year again, when the sap is running and young lads' fancy turns to . But I'm not a young lad, and now my fancy turns to the annual treat of fresh North Frontenac maple syrup. There is something special about the first spring syrup that sets it apart from the rest of the boil.
That initial taste creates a flood of memories of my youth. Easter holidays on the farm, as far away from city life and school as possible and helping to boil off; what else could a young city lad want?Remember those days? Plowing through the snow banks with a pail in each hand to empty the buckets; no bubbling hoses then to gravity feed the sap reservoir. Remember standing by the trail to wait for Ol' Dobin to plod by unguided, as she hauled the stone boat with a 40-gallon milk can chained to its planks. She was pastured all year and given a place in the winter stable in exchange for her ability to remember the trails and stops along the sap-gathering route. She needed neither tether nor whip to do her job, and she still earned her keep after being put to pasture.
Remember the days of heavy runs? The sugar shack was manned for 24 hours at a stretch, at least the adults manned it, but the young city boy was there curled up on a horse blanket beside the roaring fire. He would awaken periodically to go outside to etch a set of yellow initials in the snow and drag in a log. The adults dozing over the steaming evaporators seemed lost in dreams, but the syrup never burned.
Remember the meals? Thick beef/horseradish sandwiches were carried back to the bush, but it was the brown eggs boiled in the steaming sap that were eaten first. Can you recall the tin dipper of hot syrup that was over boiled and poured on the snow outside the shack then gathered with a broken twig? It shamed the most elaborate city ice cream sundae. There was no fussiness in eating then; walking, hauling, climbing, and horseplay whetted an appetite that all the school gyms in the world couldn't create.
And what brought on this flood of pleasant memories? Recently we placed the final 40-ouncer' whiskey bottle of last year's syrup on the table; the bottle only gets placed on the table if I grab it before my Significant Helpmate can. We are almost ready for the new boil.
Now I visit the sugar bush only in memory. Fortunately we have a syrup supplier who still boils off as I remember helping in the old days. It is dark, thick syrup, and would never pass the lightness test for Canada No. 1 grade. By fall it has sediment on the bottom, which reluctantly flows out with the last gurgle. Those chewy last drops of a syrupy something had seeped through a hole in the old wool sock used for straining - no fancy filters in his shack. It is sold by the 40-ounce whiskey bottle, as neither can nor litre exist in his world. I often wonder how he acquires all those bottles. I do save the old ones for him in deference to his liver and life; not an entirely unselfish act on my part, as I will never be able to find another supplier like him. There are few of his flavour left in this pasteurized, sanitized, standardized, and unionized world.
