Another inch of snow arrived overnight.
When we lived in Vermont, our landlord, Tom L., a forty year old bachelor who lived with his mother, ran a hundred or so taps along the hill behind our house. The sap collected from the maples along the hillside and ran downhill through plastic green tubing into a vat outside the wall of the sugar shack. On days in March that he wasn't working as the Fire Chief, or an accountant, or taking his mother on aimless Sunday drives (Tommy and Mommy, we called them fondly), our landlord boiled sap.
Jim loved to visit in the shack with the sap boiling, unable to see Tom
because of all the steam, though he was sitting just three feet away.
The sap is sweet even before it is boiled into syrup, and runs clear as
water through the tubing. When the nights are below freezing and the
days thaw, the sap runs like Dagger Falls.
Yesterday on the way home we drove past newly installed sap buckets.
No comments:
Post a Comment