Читать книгу Maple Sugaring - David K. Leff - Страница 7

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Maple Passion

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“IS IT REAL MAPLE SYRUP?” That’s my first question in an unfamiliar restaurant when I order pancakes, perhaps with a side of bacon and a couple of bull’s-eye eggs. Not long ago, I perched myself on a stool in a silvery train-car-style eastern Massachusetts diner circa 1950 where the menu promised old-fashioned, home-style blueberry waffles. Perhaps not as good as what I could make in my own kitchen, but I was away from home and hungry. Besides, where better to have old-timey comfort food than a venerable eatery with gleaming stainless accents and terrazzo floors. “For an extra buck you get maple made just a few miles away in the next town. Otherwise it’s the fake stuff—Aunt Jemima, I think,” the ponytailed waitress said. I was glad to spend a little more. Otherwise it would have been an omelet and home fries.

Despite the region’s long association with maple sugaring, even here in New England you have to ask if it’s the real deal, because some cost-conscious restaurants don’t serve it. If you’ve grown up on maple syrup or acquired the taste later in life, you can’t stomach so-called “table” or “pancake” syrup. They may advertise maple flavor, depict quaint cabins on their label, or have “Vermont” in their name, but they are viscous, cloying, and have a manufactured aftertaste. Maple syrup is made from the pure, clear sap of maple trees. While table or pancake syrups are not made from tables or flapjacks, as the names seem to suggest, they are generally concocted from corn syrup and may use sodium benzoate, cellulose gum, and artificial flavor with propylene glycol, sulfites, and dextrose. Used to be that sometimes a minuscule amount of actual maple syrup was added, but that seems largely a thing of the past. Sure, real maple syrup is a bit pricey, but when you discover the labor that goes into making it, it’s a bargain. I spent more than a decade of frenetic days, long nights, sweat and aching muscles finding out by running a small sugarhouse in the old mill village of Collinsville, Connecticut, once a world capital of axe and machete manufacture.

A couple of tablespoons or so of golden syrup hardly seemed sufficient when drizzled over my goodly stack of waffles punctuated with dark-blue fruity dots, but I poured it gingerly over the crispy grid of squares, knowing what little I was using took about a quart and a half of sap to create. Like in gold mining, where tons of rock are crushed, sifted, and treated to produce a few ounces of precious metal, a sugarmaker gathers large quantities of sap and by boiling and other clever innovations drives off the water and concentrates the sugar. Maple syrup is nothing more than condensed maple sap. The only added ingredient—leaving no taste, color, or odor—is the sugarmaker’s considerable labor. And usually that labor is itself the producer’s principal reward, for few earn much cash at it. Only a tiny percentage of big sugarmakers using thousands or even tens of thousands of taps will make a good living. The vast majority, hobbyists and small operators, make little or no money.

In spite of sugaring’s demanding bull work that might harden and obscure metaphysical notions, sugarmakers are a remarkably philosophic group. Regardless of the number of taps or size of the evaporator, sugaring is a seasonal rite of passage, a species of secular religion attaching a person to the larger cycles and rhythms of nature and life. Sugarmakers describe it as an addiction, a fever, even a contagious disease. It’s easy to get hooked, almost impossible to stop. Getting a few dollars for their work is rewarding, but for most producers it’s not their principal motivation.

“You can be successful at any size,” says maple impresario Bruce Bascom of New Hampshire, one of the nation’s largest producers, packers, wholesalers, and equipment dealers; “it just depends on what you want to get out of it.” As with a vegetable garden, a person can grow a few tomatoes and cucumbers, plant corn and rows of radishes sufficient for his family and a few friends, or can expand enough for sales at a roadside stand or get even bigger and wholesale the crop. One tap or a hundred thousand, sugaring can be a life-changing experience.

Backyard sugaring remains a time-honored activity that can stay homebound and close-knit or grow into a large company. With a season that lasts only about six weeks, maple lends itself to the devoted amateur, demonstrating that the passions of our free time are not necessarily frivolous, but can represent the best in dedication and craftsmanship. “It can be brutally hard work and the hours beyond exhausting,” Bascom told me, “but the sap run is short enough to withstand.” Until the advent of new technologies in the 1980s making large quantities easier to process, it was almost always part-time, something that dairy and other farmers did to make a few dollars in mud season so they could buy seed and other necessities. To this day, only a relatively few are in the maple business year-round.

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A NEIGHBOR’S ancient sugar maple crashing to the ground in a violent autumn windstorm over twenty-five years ago began my education as a syrup maker. She missed summer shade, splashy fall color, and the tree’s muscular winter limbs, but most of all she longed for the sap. Partially heating her house by woodstove, she used to keep a pot of sap simmering on the hot cast iron to moisten the dry interior air. The dark syrup obtained as a by-product had a slightly burnt flavor, but made at home, it was the best she had ever tasted.

The next February she asked permission to tap the two large maples that then stood like pillars on either side of my front walk. I watched in fascination as white wood spooled from holes drilled with a carpenter’s brace. Using a small hammer, she lightly tapped galvanized spiles into the openings and then attached a couple of gallon milk containers using picture-frame wire. Every few seconds a drop of clear liquid fell into the jugs with a heartbeat-like pulse. I was mesmerized.

I became as devoted as a daily soap opera fan to watching the containers, and they quickly superseded my bird feeders as objects of out-the-window interest and a measure of the changing season. My glances through the glass became an obsession, and even when I was out of the house my mind was drawn back to the trees. Warmer, sunnier days meant a continuous dribble, but when the temperature did not get much above freezing or the sky was overcast, drips were slow and far between. Nothing happened on cold days, and it made me anxious. I began describing the weather not by the usual conventions of cracker-barrel forecasters and meteorologists but by the amount of sap and frequency of drops, as if they were as probative as a changing barometer or cloud formations. I was hooked.

The following year, I put in four taps of my own and boiled sap on my kitchen stove, burning one pot, curling a few pieces of already loose wallpaper, and producing almost a pint of thin, cloudy, but tasty dark syrup. Next season, I bought the most powerful twin hot plate my hardware store could find and boiled in my garage, far from any wallpaper. With my backyard and neighbor’s trees recruited for the cause, I had eight taps and made almost a half gallon of the golden liquid, which I bottled in half-pint mason jars and gifted to smiles and rave reviews.

No twelve-step program for me. Not even a twelve-tap program. I was a confirmed maple-oholic. I made a pilgrimage to the sugarhouse of Rob Lamothe, a genial, bearded Pied Piper of sugaring in the next town with a growing family operation and a brisk equipment business. Rob didn’t have to give a sales pitch. His generosity sharing knowledge and natural enthusiasm for an activity he loved were infectious. Securing permission from more neighbors to tap trees, I tossed my milk jugs and bought the traditional sixteen-quart galvanized buckets and a barrel evaporator—a horizontal thirty-five-gallon drum set on legs so it could be used like a woodstove. It was fitted with a flat-bottom pan on top in which to boil sap. I had twenty-one taps and made five gallons of syrup.

The next year, I received permission to use the trees at both the Congregational church down the street and the phone company, whose nearby switching station had a maple out front. I had thirty-four taps. The season after that, I visited Rob just as he returned from his ancestral Quebec with a load of new and used equipment. I purchased a small two-by-four-foot professional-style evaporator. It had twin stainless-steel pans that separated fresh sap from nearly finished syrup, thereby providing continuous flow of the transforming liquid. I bought a 150-gallon storage tank, a hydrometer for measuring the density of syrup, a grading kit, and plastic jugs just like the big guys used for their product. Eventually, I had over eighty taps along the streets and in the yards of homes and businesses throughout the small downtown where I live within sight of town hall.

Sugaring captured my imagination, was a lifestyle, became part of my identity. I defined the years by the sugaring weather, the sweetness of sap, and the amount of syrup I produced. I met other sugarmakers, went to maple meetings, and was eventually elected to the board of the Maple Syrup Producers Association of Connecticut. There was excitement in the way sugarmakers always looked forward to the future, the grand gamble with Mother Nature and new technologies and products. The wisdom of a deep heritage shared with old-timers tempered innovation and kept cultural amnesia at bay. They might grumble about adverse weather, new government regulations, and the cost of replacement equipment, but their complaints were always softened with a joy in producing something natural that simply made people happy. I had dreams of expanding my somewhat urban experiment in agriculture, though I stopped short of installing tubing, which would have had to be exceedingly high or tie up traffic. Still, it would have been fun to have those colorful hollow ribbons of plastic strung around the village and sparkling in the sunlight.

I was making just over fifty gallons of syrup in a good year, which means I was hauling and boiling about two thousand gallons of sap. It was backbreaking work, but I was energized by it, totally in thrall until my vertebrae literally gave out. Despite two surgeries to repair the damage and help from my children and neighbors collecting and boiling sap, I was finally forced to stop sugaring.

Though it has been over ten years since I made syrup, I still get the itch and longing in late winter when daylight grows and temperatures regularly climb above freezing. I feel like a baseball fan as Grapefruit League games approach or a fisherman awaiting opening day. Spring is less about colorful flowers and the smell of softening soil than the aroma of wood smoke mixed with sweet steam.

During the season, I drive around to see who is tapping and where. Unless I do so, I feel a hunger, an emptiness that no number of waffles smothered in syrup can satisfy. I stop into sugarhouses to chat and smell the mapley moist warmth of these New England saunas where there is always a welcome, some equipment to be tinkered with, and a few stories to be shared. I found that you can stop boiling sap, but never quite quit being a sugarmaker once it’s in your blood.

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SUGAR MAKING is ancient, simple, yet somehow mysterious. A familiar homegrown local food in my corner of the world, it nevertheless seems exotic, the transformation from sap to syrup almost magical. It’s part art, alchemy, and science. Though looking at a liquid boil is not much more exciting than the proverbial opportunity of watching paint dry, sugaring not only addicts sugarmakers but intrigues everyone from grammar schoolers to octogenarians, thousands of whom are drawn yearly to visit sugarhouses and watch the process. Perhaps our fascination has something to do with our love of sweets, our nostalgia for simpler times, hunger for healthful and pure foods, or that this first crop of the new year takes us from frigid winter to the threshold of spring and yields a golden, luminescent liquid that seems the very distillation of sunshine itself.

Maple sugaring may be the most Yankee of Yankee activities. On one hand, it has an old-timey backwoods image, but shrewdly uses high-tech equipment like reverse osmosis, vacuum pumps, and check-valve spiles. There’s a dirt-road, country-store sales pitch, yet sophisticated marketing sells not just a product but an experience, a sense of place and time. If it’s true that we are what we eat, maple syrup has an edgy difference. With rare exception, it’s a food harvested not from plantations, but wild-grown forests. These are managed to favor the sweet trees by people serious about long-term, sustainable stewardship of the woods. Maple is at the confluence of wild nature and culture, a hunter-gatherer activity that’s become somewhat domesticated. This connection to ancient food harvesting may be part of the magic.

Maple syrup is a true marker of place, a symbol of authenticity and deep heritage that is produced in one region of the world. Though in the United States it’s primarily a product of the Northeast and upper Midwest, sugaring can be a lens focusing on and illuminating a wide swath of America’s cultural geography. It’s a story of entrepreneurship, technical innovation, family life, and our relationship to nature. Its history is rooted in Native American traditions and the politics of national independence and the antislavery movement. Nevertheless, maple issues are as contemporary as the economics of international trade. Sugaring is sensitive to environmental change from invasive species, air pollution, and global warming; some observers believe that sugarmakers may be the canary in the coal mine for such environmental transformations. Recently, maple has become emblematic of increasing interest in independent lifestyles and healthful food choices.

The most Yankee of Yankee activities

In the United States, commercial sugaring regions extend south to Virginia’s mountains and as far west as Minnesota. But for generations Canada has produced the vast majority of maple syrup, with the province of Quebec making close to 80 percent of the world’s total. A syrup cartel, the Federation of Quebec Maple Syrup Producers, tightly regulates marketing and production in our northern neighbor. With a strategic reserve, or surplus, of tens of millions of pounds of syrup, it not only controls the wholesale price in Canada, but largely in this country as well. Though sometimes pejoratively referred to as the OPEC of syrup, with a barrel of the sweet stuff commanding a price much higher than the standard West Texas Intermediate crude, even American producers acknowledge that the federation has beneficially stabilized prices in a business otherwise subject to wide supply and price swings from the vicissitudes of weather.

With production in good years at well over a million gallons, Vermont is by far the leading syrup producer in the United States, usually making twice as much as its closest rival, New York, and generally two times what the other five New England states produce combined. Certainly, in the public mind Vermont is the place most intimately and immediately identified with syrup, and the state has long been a leader in research, regulation, and inspection. Fortunately, Vermont’s stature in the maple world has, to some degree, radiated by association to the other New England states. While New England is not the big player on the world maple stage, it is a place where the sugaring culture reaches its apotheosis, looming larger than what is revealed by mere measurements in gallons of syrup or trees tapped.

Maple sugaring exemplifies the classic New England values of connectedness to land and community, Yankee ingenuity, observation of the natural world, heritage pride, entrepreneurship, homespun hospitality, make-do and can-do, and simplicity. If you want to understand much of present-day America in a grounded, tangible, and fundamental way, sugaring is a palpable means. Just as the nineteenth-century New England transcendentalists like Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau found universal truths in the details of particulars, so too can larger truths about America be wrested from the sugaring culture of this region.

Sugaring simultaneously keeps alive both the old and contemporary New England, whether in the shadow of Hartford office towers or the most rural precincts of Maine. It’s not a “Bert and I” story, a Yankee magazine puff piece, and it doesn’t look like an advertisement for Pepperidge Farm. The much-vaunted and lamented New England character is not dying. It’s present in the sugarmakers who each year return to their evaporators like migratory birds. They remind us that the essence of a region is not just in what we see, however careful our observations. It’s in the doing of something that binds people to a place where they are firmly rooted in the here-and-now while simultaneously able to reach back to deeper connections.

America needs maple syrup. Not so much to drench its pancakes to satisfy an insatiable sweet tooth, but to tell us who we are, where we’ve been, and where we might be going. It ties the past to the present and the present to the future. It’s a small world that reveals something larger and more fundamental, like a hilltop sugarbush offering a distant view.

Maple Dip

Yield: 2 cups

INGREDIENTS

8 ounces cream cheese, softened

1 cup pure maple sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Fresh fruit slices, such as apple, pineapple, banana, peach, or pear

DIRECTIONS

1. Combine cream cheese, maple sugar, and vanilla extract in a bowl; mix until smooth.

2. Chill in refrigerator until ready to serve.

3. Spoon into serving bowl and serve with the fresh fruit slices.

Recipe by Wenzel Sugarhouse

Butternut Squash/Maple Soup

Yield: 8 servings

INGREDIENTS

2 ounces butter

2 cups chopped onion

1 tablespoon cornstarch

4 cups chicken stock

3 pounds cooked, mashed butternut squash

Salt and pepper to taste

¾ cup half-and-half (or cream)

⅓ cup maple syrup

Toppings for serving

DIRECTIONS

1. In a large skillet or kettle, melt the butter and sauté the onions for about 3 minutes, until translucent.

2. Sprinkle the onions with the cornstarch and mix thoroughly. Cook until absorbed.

3. Add the chicken stock a little at a time and cook, stirring frequently, until the liquid starts to thicken.

4. Add the squash, mixing as you add. Bring to a boil, then simmer for 15 minutes. Stir often so it doesn’t stick.

5. Purée a portion at a time in a blender or food processor, or use an immersion blender.

6. Return to cooking pot and add the half-and-half (or cream) and the Connecticut maple syrup, mixing well. Let simmer on medium low heat until heated through.

7. Serve immediately, or keep in refrigerator for up to 2 days.

You can top the soup with minced parsley, thyme, rosemary, nutmeg, cinnamon, sour cream, or nuts, depending on your taste. Feel free to experiment with a selection of different toppings each time!

Recipe by Kay Carroll