maple syrup

Somewhere in the recesses of my memory lies my kindergarten field trip to a sugarbush to find out how to make syrup. We ate pancakes and poured maple syrup on them, enjoying their sticky sweetness. I recall watching the steam lift off the syrup as it was being made, and I remember the wooden, green darkness of the classroom and the round softness of my teacher. These are images only, brushes of moments-- much like a scratched DVD that skips ahead from scene to scene.

This weekend was a much needed break from the gloom of our overcast, grey skies in Buffalo, NY. It may not have snowed much, but the sunlight is a surprise every single Spring. The warm weather made it feel even better.

To celebreat (that was mistyped but I like it, it works), a good friend and I traveled to Freedom, NY, and visited the Moore's Pancake and Maple Syrup house. All you can eat pancakes (which were astonishing in their light, delicious state. I had three helpings-- nearly ten pancakes in all, and could have kept going except I'm really trying to lose weight here) plus large round sausage patties and scrambled eggs. The decor is all vintage artifacts from the six generations of Moores that have been running the restaurant and making their own maple syrup. They include photos, dresses, hats, shoes, farm equipment and an old phone.

Afterwards we toured to the sugarbush-- via 1951 John Deere tractor (possibly 1961)-- and hosted by a friend of the Moore family. While in Kindergarten I'm sure we were taught much the same process-- stick a hole in a tree, collect the sap and then begin processing it into syrup-- this trip meant a few more things.

First, I teach an Erie Canal program to fourth graders and we spend a good portion of our time discussing what the world was like "way back then." I try to describe the bumpiness of the wagons back then, and the noise -- well, the tractor gave me a visceral reminder of this past. Our fellow passengers included a 2 year old going on 3, and her parents held her tight. Our host talked about how he used to take a horse and wagon back there, collecting sap on snow that rested three feet high. We haven't seen snow three feet high in a while-- definitely not this winter, where I'd be surprised if we saw 6 inches total in the city.

Most striking to me, and to my friend, was the man's accent. That he had an accent was clear. He grew up near Arcade, not quite an hour away from the city of Buffalo-- and yet his earthy, farmer accent-- it sounded close to Canadian, and yet also a bit new englandish-- was strikingly not the way we talked. I grew up on the outskirts of the city of Buffalo, and between that and the time I spent in NYC, consider myself quite the yankee-- but a citified yankee. Now we were listening to the genuine "salts of the earth" and I was taken aback at how different we sounded. Perhaps, because he has worked so closely with his family's generations, he has retained the closest version of our colonial speech that remains. I almost envied his close acquaintance with our past-- he knows more about where we came from than I can ever hope-- inept as I am at telling the difference between a maple, an elm or an oak.

If you need to appreciate where you are, I can think of no better way than to travel back in time a little bit, and spend time with the folks who are connected that way. After all, I may be an adult-- but that maple syrup tastes just as good as when I was in Kindergarten. Sometimes a trip back is all you need to refresh living in the moment.