The Concentration of Syrup and Memories
"We’re here!" My three kids squeal when they spot the driveway towards their cousins’ farmhouse.
This is only our third visit to my sister Emily’s farm since she moved here with her family a year ago, but already it has made an impression on my children. They anticipate it like one feels about returning home.
Our minivan winds down the steep drive through a canopy of trees. "It’s like a tunnel," my five year old whispers. I am just as charmed as he is. We spot the big red barn first, the kind I imagine houses a Charlotte and a Wilbur. As we make the curve out of the trees we take in the view of the 85 year old farmhouse, passed down through generations in my brother-in-law Travis’ family. It sits on the edge of a valley overlooking acres of land, thick with rolling hills, climbing trees, corn fields, cattle. It is impossible not to be taken by it’s charm.
The kids spring from the car before I unbuckle my seatbelt. They are the city kids. The farm is their Narnia—a magical place where they adventure with cousins, where boundaries stretch, and where parents relax rules in the name of fun, and, honestly, laziness.
We made plans to visit in February, as we stared down the tight grip winter holds on March in the midwest. "Want to come help us make maple syrup?" Emily asked one afternoon, probably sharing the same anxious thoughts of winter survival. I couldn’t respond quickly enough.
After a few wistful romps around the yard, we send the kids to bed with promises of homemade donuts and “cousins only” forest exploration in the morning.
It’s not until the afternoon of the following day that we begin the maple syrup production. And by “production” I mean supervising a bubbling pot over a sparking fire with beers in our hands while inside two kids nap and the older three pass around the Nintendo switch controllers. I could get used to this maple syrup-ing.
Seeing as we are the “city folks,” Travis explains the process.
"First we take the collected sap from the tapped maple trees around the property. Right now we have about 20 gallons of sap."
"Twenty gallons! That’s a lot of maple syrup!"
"Actually, it’s not as much as you would think. Twenty gallons will only yield about a half gallon of syrup."
He continues with his explanation in detail—how over the summer the leaves and roots soak up water and food, creating energy the tree needs during dormant winters, in the form of sugary sap. But if you tasted the sap that comes from the tree today, the sugar is barely detectable. That’s where the boiling process comes in—to concentrate the sugar into syrup. It’s fascinating work. But to be honest, I’m here for the social experience, and the final product on my french toast tomorrow morning.
The late winter air is chilly but it goes unnoticed as we huddle by the fire. We share stories—their farmhouse renovation dreams, our summer vacation plans, wild career goals. There is other news bubbling up around us, scary news, of the outside world and a dangerous pandemic. But we try not to let it boil over into our conversation. Instead, we allow the steam from the pot to whip around us, the scent of toasted sugar creating a cocoon of warmth and comfort.
Sunday morning after syrup making feels like a completely new world. We wake to news of school closures in our home state of Minnesota due to the threat of Covid-19. This shouldn’t surprise us. The news has fallen like waves over the last few weeks. We watched them approach, wondering when they would crash against our feet standing on the shores. The water has crested now. Our feet are soaked. And the waves are only getting stronger.
Yesterday’s moment of bliss feels like a distant memory. Fear and uncertainty linger in the air as we pack up our belongings to leave for home. Walking the luggage to the car, it weighs heavy in my arms. Are we leaving with more than when we came? Today’s sorrow mixed with yesterday’s gratitude must be more difficult to carry than I thought.
As we say our goodbyes, Travis tucks something into the back seat. "Some maple syrup for you. It’s not much, but it’s enough for a few breakfasts."
Our minivan drives up the hill through the tunnel of trees. I watch the farm fade into the distance through the rearview mirror, and my memories along with it.
***
It’s Saturday morning which means, of course, pancakes. On another Saturday it would feel special to be together, planning our family adventures. We might talk of playground visits, breweries to try, happy hours with friends.
We don’t talk about those things today. It’s the first Saturday after Covid-19 shut us down. While the world collectively battles a global pandemic, we isolate in our home. Months down the road, this will feel more familiar. But today it’s weird and sad and confusing.
But it’s still Saturday. Pancake making is not canceled. We cling to that normalcy.
"Breakfast is ready!" I call to the children building a fort in the family room. They come running, lulled by the trail of steam from fresh off the griddle cakes.
I open the refrigerator hunting for butter and maple syrup. That’s when I spot the jar. A memory floods my mind—a cold afternoon, warm fire, laughter, family close, sweet smelling steam swirling.
I want to grab it from the shelf, to taste this memory that feels so long ago. But there is only one jar. What happens when it’s gone?
I think of plans we made to visit my sister and her family at the farm this summer. I think of those trees, who will begin to bud, slowly growing into giant canopies of summer bliss. I remember the rope swing dangling from the tree, waiting for cousins to swing from its branches, to shout with glee as they imagine the rocket ship they sit on bound for the moon. I can almost taste the wild apples they carry home to us, treasures found from their romps through the forest.
I mourn so many memories that won’t be made this year. I wonder what will become of summer birthday parties, family around a big table at the holidays, hockey under a winter sunset. So much of what brings us home to our families will likely be postponed or canceled all together for the sake of the greater good. While I try to remain hopeful, with so much uncertainty it is easy to slip into a scarcity mentality. What is there to look forward to when so much is out of our reach?
It’s not the first time I have wondered this. It is easy to watch the children grow and worry it is going too fast. "Children are only young once," they threaten. "Better soak it up now. Make every moment count." Have I made it count? Have I soaked it up? I’m uncertain. And now with all that is being canceled, I watch another year checked off the list, before it’s even begun.
I look at the jar of maple syrup, half full, or is it half empty? What happens when it is gone? Should I ask my sister to meet me somewhere in rural Wisconsin, take the three hour drive round trip? Reach my hand through the window to retrieve the contraband? No, that doesn’t sound wise. Perhaps we should save it, ration the drops. Let the kids eat it, I’ll go without. I don’t need syrup.
But the pancakes sit hot and ready, begging for the sweet taste of Wisconsin maples.
I think of those trees that watched over my children as they adventured through the woods with their cousins. I think of the memories they soaked up into their roots, nourishing them through the cold days of winter, quietly flavoring the water, awaiting its moment to concentrate all of its goodness.
That season’s syrup is ready now, collected into jars, brought out for Saturday morning pancakes and Friday evening cocktails and Thursday night breakfast for dinner, but the trees’ life is never done. It merely begins the process all over again—collecting more sweet memories from the spring rains and summer sun into the deepest parts of its cavity, ready to produce more syrup, as it always does, year after year.
I want my memories to do that too. I want the sweetest parts of life to be concentrated into my core, waiting to add flavor when I need them most. I want to live from abundance. There will be more memories to savor. There will be more sweet syrup flowing. Maybe we will run out. Life might be dull and simple for awhile. But there will be more next season. We will return one day, we always do.
I bring the jar to the table. I let the kids pour it themselves, knowing they will use more than their pancakes can soak up. I’m not worried, though. I know they will savor every bite. Children don't worry about abundance. For them, there is always more to look forward to. Maybe that’s why they have already made my sister’s farm, their magical place, their home too. When a place holds memories, we never forget. We always feel at home.
I want to know what this home tastes like.
I take my turn with the syrup, and flood my plate with it’s goodness.
Image created by @phoenixfeatherscalligraphy for C+C, 2020
This post was written as part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to read the next post in this series "Savor.”
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