How Sweet It Is ...

When Your Husband Decides To Do Maple Sugaring

Marriage is mostly a side-by-side operation, but that doesn’t mean that you do everything together.

In fact, sometimes you can cheer your spouse on in some kind of new enterprise while you continue, after maybe some wavering, to stick to your own vibe, and then — this almost doesn’t seem fair — share in the rewards that s/he may eventually earn.

Don’t forget this part: you can also express appreciation for how the effort pays off.

Here’s what happened around here recently. My husband decided, I don’t know why, that the time had come for him to actually use all the maple sugaring equipment that had been given to us by a friend and neighbor about two decades ago, when this gentleman felt ready to pass it along to the next generation.

We were in our former home then, in the sweet town of Shutesbury, Massachusetts. Mark and Jane lived just up the hill, and they also came to church down in Amherst. Since they’d known members of my own family years before, our bond felt fortified by history.

They’ve both passed on now, years apart; we attended each service, grateful to have known such splendid people. And this spring, we have fresh reminders of them.

What It All Boils Down To

Rob had never sugared before, but he had a basic confidence that he could learn how.

First, naturally, he chose the maples. Though we have a couple near the house, he focused on about 10 down our back field a ways, where we used to go every day with Rocky.

Aflame in autumn, these trees don’t call attention to themselves at all in winter.

Oh, but all the exciting back and forth, up and down of liquid in the xylem and phloem!

Here’s a good, brief explanation of what’s going on offered by the Master Gardener site of Penn State’s Extension: "The Science Behind Sap Flow in Maple Sugaring"

Then, he got the taps ready. I helped a bit with this part, going on a mission to find additional hooks at a hardware store (turns out, you need to buy the tap and hook together). Then, using a drill to make holes in every tree’s bark (ouch?) was easy.

Not wanting to imagine the trees wincing at such intrusions, I preferred to think of this part of the process as something akin to milking cows with full udders, or maybe giving blood to the Red Cross: the maples had plenty of sap to give and would keep making more.

You can barely see the liquid in this one. Unlike many people in the public eye, it’s being transparent.

Sure enough, the drip, drip, dripping went on steadily at each tap over a number of days, and soon Rob had a big garbage pail — newly bought for the purpose — full of the sloshing around stuff, looking just like water.

Then, I could sense, within my spouse, hard thinking going on about the next part of the process. Soon he forged ahead, designing the outdoor hearth, using condensed-wood pellets, sometimes called bricks.

Success! There was Mark’s old evaporator pan, giving off steam on some raw days.

One Friday, when I went to work, Rob sat out here patiently for most of the day, with a rocking chair and a book.

When I got home, he’d set up a table where the final part of the process was happening. There was the cloth filter, capturing all the stuff people wouldn’t want in their syrup; the two just-purchased hot plates, for doing the last part of the boiling; the thermometer, for ensuring that the liquid got to 219 degrees.

He seemed to be getting the hang of it all right.

After the first batch was made, other duties called, and there was a necessary pause in production. He kept the mostly-boiled sap cold out in a cooler, surrounded by snow. (I didn’t go out and examine the method but definitely endorsed it.) Maybe it was the next Friday, he got that hearth going again, and resumed boiling — however many gallons, I don’t know.

A request for Mason jars, two different sizes please, sent me to a different hardware store on my way home from work this time.

That afternoon, when I left for a run in the sun, the fire was going and the steam was rising again, but — I peered into that big pan to check, and the table by the garage wasn’t operational yet— there was definitely no amber-colored anything around.

When I came back, though, only an hour later, this is what greeted me:

I mean, how did that abracadabra happen? I still don’t fully understand.

Rob said it had something to do with the fact that he’d already done most of the work the week before, when it was steely grey and chilly and I was elsewhere. Today, I’d watched him cross the hard-earned Finish Line.

Maybe so, but I believe that an element of the miraculous really does exist in everyday life…. and definitely in most long-lasting marriages.