Yesterday morning I poured the last of our maple syrup from Vermont on Tommy’s pancakes. This syrup comes from trees just up the hill from where we stay when we are there in the summer. I buy gallons of it when we’re up there, but it never seems like enough to get us from visit to visit.
It’s getting to be that time in Vermont, when the days are warm and the nights cold and the sap runs and is collected in sugar houses like this one to be boiled and boiled and boiled some more for syrup.
I am profligate in my use of maple syrup, putting it in everything from bread dough to granola, salad dressing, and cookies. But my very favorite use of it is on buttermilk pancakes. (Matt has been known to ask me if I’d like some pancakes with my syrup.)
Someday I’d like to take the boys to see one of these sugar houses in action, to sample the watery vague sweetness of the sap, to feel the waves of heat emanating from the small shack, to eat homemade donuts and pickles and hard boiled eggs and syrup-on-snow as my sister and I did when we were children. To taste springtime in Vermont.