Finishing

Mother Maple in Snow

Several snows have teased us, keeping us poised on the edge of spring, refreshing winter’s grip.
Almost daily, leaving a light covering taken again,
as if to say, “Not so soon.”
Patience for spring, tried and failing.

Carried slowly forward in the steps of this process, I know that its conclusion marks the arrival of spring. That, each day, and with each step, the grip is loosened.

The final step in the process of making maple syrup, aptly called “finishing,” takes the evaporated sap from the pan outdoors and brings it to the proper density indoors, over the stove. Of the entire operation, from the tapping of the trees until the syrup lines our shelves as amber in glass, this final step requires the most precision.


Out come the fancy tools of the trade, wrapped carefully in tissue and kept in a drawer, safely aside from all the other heavy kitchen utensils that might break its delicate, glass form. The hydrometer—a weighted float, calibrated and marked in fine black and red lines along its hollow, slender stem, to measure the specific gravity, the liquid’s density relative to that of water. And a hydrometer cup—a tall, thin, metal container that will hold a column of liquid for testing.
Hot liquid, ladled from a pot on the stove, and into the cup, is checked often, until the hydrometer floats in the column to just the right mark.

Boiling on stove

Hydrometer floating in hot liquid

Not dense enough, and mold may form over time within the saved liquid.
Too dense, and crystals may form within the jars.


So, as we are “finishing,”
so is winter, wrapping itself up,
releasing, finger by finger, its grasp.
And leaving us with amber in glass.

Amber in Glass

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Evaporation

Steam rising from the Boil

It is a crisp and bright morning.
The sun just rising, fire started.
A cool, light breeze will carry the water away.
By sunset, all but the sweetness of maple, gone.

Maple syrup, what many unknowingly believe readily oozes from a Sugar Maple as pitch would ooze from a gash in a pine tree, is actually the final product resulting from the process of sap evaporation. The sap, a clear, water-like liquid collected by the gallons from tapped trees on the first warming days of spring, contains, by volume, less than 5% sugar. By boiling off most of this liquid, through evaporation, the precious syrup is produced—an amber substance, 67% sugar.

Because even the scant amount of sugar in collected sap spoils quickly, we hold just a small gathering tank, pouring from the buckets as they fill on the trees, and keeping it well chilled for the days we wait, preparing to boil. Then, in the yard, the arch is constructed--a structure to support a large evaporating pan and create draft for the fire built beneath it.
From a pile of cinder blocks and stovepipe—voila!

Constructing the Arch, level, for Evaporator Pan

Boiling Sap in the Yard

Throughout the day, the fire is tended-- sticks from the yard collected, scrap wood from the year’s odd building projects cleared.
And the steam pours off the surface of the rolling, boiling liquid in the broad, flat pan.
Gallons are added, as the sap boils and boils.
And the gathering tank soon is emptied.


A hint of color now bubbles within,
and the slightest of sweet smells drifts in waves across the yard as the breeze turns it over and over, before taking it away.

Pouring off boiled sap through filter

We must finish this syrup indoors, another day--on stove top, where more control allows better monitoring.
So, for now, in the cold darkness, we pour it carefully off and warm our fingers and toes around the day’s bed of coals.
The warm glow feels good against our faces.
Imagining, someday soon, pancakes.

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Drip, drip, drip...

Sugar Maple Leaves, frosted

Frosty Gravel Drive

The morning air has a chill.
A delicate lacy trim has been left on the maple leaves, now rusty brown and caught in the grass--left there last fall, and held by winter's snows.
Through the dark outlines of the trees, I can see patches of white, still scattered against the dim background of the woods.

Across the road, fog has settled into the lower fields.
And a pink sun slowly lights the landscape in what will be another cloudless sky.

Everything is just perfect—for sap.

Frozen drip on end of spile (spout)

Glaze of Ice in Sap Buckets

"Sugar weather," what maple syrup producers call the period in the spring characterized by freezing nights interspersed with mild, sunny days, varies geographically, and from year to year. And, for those who wait, drill in hand, to tap their trees, it is a season that is sensed, more than plotted on a thermometer or circled on the calendar. The heaviest cold has passed, and the thaw has begun. For a moment, the earth hesitates, poised at the cusp of spring.

Drip

Technically speaking, sap flow is dependent upon pressure--the relative difference between the pressure within the sapwood of the tree and the pressure of the atmosphere outside it.
It is believed, that, at temperatures below freezing, negative pressure develops within the wood, drawing liquid from the roots, into the tree. Then, as the dark bark of the tree is warmed by the sunshine of a mild spring day, the pressure inside the wood becomes greater than that outside. This positive pressure acts to press the sap out, through a taphole, if one has been drilled. That evening, if the thermometer dips below freezing, the cycle will begin again.
Because the flow is so dependent upon this daily rise and fall in temperature, the length of season may vary widely, and sometimes starts and stops, when temperatures hold steady, either as cold or warm.

Frosty Sugar Maple leaves in Grass

Beneath my feet, the ground has the softness of spring. And the promise of a clear day, will soon turn on this faucet.
Drip,
drip,
drip...

By sunset, the buckets will be full.

Sap dripping into bucket beneath tin lid

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Old Mother Maple

I love the big, old trees on our property.

Arriving from upstate New York, they were the first impression of our new southern home. Where, from a canopy above, birdsong greeted the weary travelers and broad branches sheltered an old brick house safely beneath.
A large hickory stands guard in the back, reminding us with intermittent showers of nuts upon the tin roof, that he’s still standing strong.
In the front, a large hollow Sycamore and 2 Sugar Maples line the drive.
We are well surrounded by their interlacing, graceful branches.
Safely at home, on the top of our little hill.

Maple Sugaring Time
Sugar Maple, Acer saccharum

In early spring, we tap the Sugar Maples—the first step in a month-long process that yields the sweet amber syrup I remember from my grandfather’s farm in Vermont. Only several quarts, from just 3 trees scattered across the yard. But, a sweetness like no other, that tastes of strength and purity—and home.

The largest of the three, Mother Maple, reaches out toward our porch.
Her twisted trunk bears the scars of large fallen limbs. And the many slender branches grown in their place are crooked, giving her a lop-sided profile.
She is the character of an old, proud tree.
Gnarled, and with bark covered by lichens.
Greeting visitors to the hill, in her place by the front walk.

Mother Maple

Every spring, her arms welcome nesting birds.
Last year, a family of Summer Tanagers and this spring, Ruby-throated Hummingbirds.
On narrow leafy branches, with a gentle slope--such a welcome place to make a home.

female Summer Tanager at nest

Ruby-throated Hummingbird nest with tip of beak showing above

pair of baby hummingbirds in nest

This fall, her leaves have grown brown and withered. They litter the ground beneath her, barely changing to their golden tones.
I wonder if she will be with us much longer.
Or if there will be a gap in this landscape.

The hot, dry summer is hard on a more northern girl.

Mother Maple and our home

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Not this year

The buckets stand in a corner of the barn.
The trees stand in the yard.

Any other year at this time, as the sap begins to flow, the preparations for making maple syrup begin.
On a bright, still, mild day, we rinse the cobwebs from the buckets, drill the holes in the Sugar Maples, and hammer in the spouts.
For the next few weeks, the buckets hang.
The sap flows.
And I recall my grandfather’s Vermont farm.

The arch is set up on the gravel drive--of concrete blocks 2 rows high, that support the evaporating pan and a stovepipe chimney. For just one day, we will boil the colorless, sugary liquid, from dawn till dark--everything we’ve collected and carefully stored. The clouds of steam billow from the surface, gradually revealing the prized amber remainder.
The following day, on the stove indoors, the syrup is finished--brought to the proper density and sealed in jars.
It is just enough for one year.

This year we’ve decided to let our trees rest. Although sugaring isn’t harmful to healthy trees, last year’s extreme drought and the unusually high temperatures in this southern region caused the few Sugar Maples remaining on this property to drop their leaves before fall.

The extreme weather, an annoyance to so many, touched every living thing--
burning and choking these sweet trees that have stood with the old house for so many years.
I hope they are strong.

And, as I tentatively watch each day for an indication of what’s in store for the coming months, my prayer is,
“Not this year.”

Last year sugaring