Mapling

I have a very clear memory of a scene in a novel I read as a child: Sometime in the 1800's or early 1900's, a character and his/her family are invited to a nearby farm to help their friends make maple sugar. The main character, a child, stays up most of the night running around in the snow with friends, standing by bonfires, and smelling the sweet, sticky scent of maple syrup as his/her father helps to feed the fires and keep it boiling away. I can't remember the book or even the name of the character, but it sounded like a pretty good time. This memory is probably what inspired this California girl to want to visit a maple farm someday, and now that I live on the East Coast I decided to jump on the chance over the weekend. It was, after all, Maple Week. (You did celebrate Maple Week, didn't you?) I found a farm only an hour away from the city, rented a car, and enlisted Ed who kindly told me it was a good idea and that he'd enjoy the trip. Was he being honest? I didn't care. I had a travel buddy and was ready to get my maple on.

 Sunday turned out to be one of the nicest days we've had so far in 2013. It was in the high 40s - imagine! - and there wasn't a snowflake in sight. Alas, as Ed and I drove upstate, things got colder. The sun shone just as brightly though, and I enjoyed dusting off my sunglasses and actually wearing them for the first time in (seriously) months. We arrived at Niese's Maple Farm after a pleasant drive and found parking not far from the entrance.

Ed makes a friend

I have to say that the experience, while very enjoyable, was somewhat disappointing. This is more due to my failure to research than anything; Niese's offerings are pretty limited. Ed and I dragged our feet as we wandered around to try to stretch out the visit, but even so we'd seen about all there was to see within 20 minutes. We could easily have accomplished this in 10. The farm consisted of a three-walled shed that housed a pancake buffet, a small picnic area, a muddy goat pen housing three of the largest goats I'd ever seen, a wood carving area in which a lumberjack-ish man was carving a bear out of a log with a chainsaw, a giant, caged rooster, a rabbit in a wet hutch, and a wooden shack that was half gift shop and half "sugar house." All of this was packed into a pretty small plot of land surrounded, as you'd imagine by trees. It was very pretty and the hired guitarist and crowds of kids running around gave the whole place a festive air. But it was small. 

The artist at work

The sugar house (behind the tractor)

We went into the crowded gift shop first to make inquiries and, since we were already in there, buy some goodies. We ended up with three pint bottles of Grade A Dark Amber syrup (one for us and two for gifts) and a maple candy, shaped like a leaf and made of pure sugar. Ed recalls loving them when he was younger, and when we at it later it melted in our mouths. The store also sold jams, preserves, jars of honey, baked goods, and lots of the cheesy country kitch that middle-aged women love to fill their homes with. We paid for our syrup and learned that we could visit the sugar house next door for more information.

A man whose overalls could barely contain his pot belly was holding court in the crowded space. It was hard to hear him over the live music outside, but as people filtered in and out we worked our way closer and got to hear more. The embroidered nametag on his coat said "Glenn." Ah, Glenn Niese, the lord of the manor! He didn't seem to have an established speech; he simply fielded questions as they came. This resulted in a rather disorganized flow of information.

This is where the magic happens

I learned quite a bit about maple syrup, however, and liked Glenn, though was decidedly rough around the edges. He told us about drilling holes into trees using a battery-operated drill and inserting spiles (plastic things with points to go into the tree on one side and a spout on the other). Gone are the days of quaint buckets hanging from the trees; instead, plastic tubing goes from tree to tree and leads, eventually, to the sugar house. A tree must be at least 40 years old before it can be tapped. Some larger trees can accommodate more than one spile, but too many can harm the tree; a good sugarman doesn't want to take more than 10% of the tree's sap. When the weather freezes, then thaws, the sap moves in waves, causing (according to Glenn; Ed was skeptical of this figure) 32 pounds of pressure. This drives the sap through the spile and into the tube, and is so strong that the sap can even run uphill! Into the house the sap goes, where it is heated to a precise temperature in a big vat-this varies according to barometric pressure and must be tested constantly-to boil off 98% of the water. (Cords of wood are not necessary now that gas fuel is available.) That means that it takes 40 gallons of sap to produce one gallon of maple syrup! The fact that the sap only runs out of the trees this efficiently during a short period in early spring is the reason that maple sugar farms run nearly 24 hours a day during this time of year: This is their one shot at making enough syrup to earn them a year's worth of revenue. We also learned about the different grades of syrup. Contrary to what I assumed, lower grades do not mean lower quality, just darker color and more flavor. Some people really prefer B grade over A grade, and there didn't seem to be much difference in price.

Trees being tapped

Eventually, now experts on the maple trade, Ed and I slipped out to look for flowing sap. We didn't have far to go; trees along the perimeter of the visitor area were roped together with plastic tubing. Close examination showed, to my dismay, that nothing seemed to be happening. Apparently the day had been too warm for too many hours for the sap to keep running. But then, to my delight, we saw a bit of what looked like water inside one of the tubes! It was hard to believe that this clear liquid could really be maple sap, though. Wasn't sap dark and viscous? But then Ed spotted a small crack in the pipe with a droplet hanging from it. He wet his finger and then stuck it into his mouth and I followed suit. I was thrilled to discover a hint of sweetness on my tongue! I went back for several more drips before thoroughly convincing myself that this was the real thing.

The drop we tasted (hard to see - the camera kept focusing on the tree in the background).

Satisfied, Ed and I turned to leave. There was a hay ride, though we decided not to wait in line to ride in a bumpy cart pulled by two huge Clydesdales. Instead, we had lunch at a local barbecue joint and drove back to the city, smelling deliciously like hickory smoke. And we had pancakes for dinner, topped off with tasty, fresh maple syrup.

I'm hoping that someday I find myself living on a property with the right kind of maple tree, as I'd love to try this process on the stove for myself. Planting a maple tree for this purpose is out of the question, however; if I got one in the ground today, I wouldn't be able to insert a spile until I was 70!