Eric’s been journaling during our adjustment to these rapidly changing times, so I’ve created a page on The Way to the Clearing for him to post his thoughts. Here is entry number two.
(For Patti’s blog posts, visit the homepage or click here.)
I left the damper open on the woodstove when we retired to the bedroom last evening. At 2 o’clock when I got up for relief, there were no coals, only ashes. And this morning, although it was considerably warmer inside—56°F—than outside—14°F, the house felt cold with neglect. Getting the fires started in both the main house and the red cabin is the first order of business on winter mornings (note to self: it’s spring). At least there were coals in the stove in the red cabin, and the kindling started right away. I always think of Aldo Leopold when gazing into a wood fire. In A Sand County Almanac he described the flames in a burning wood fire as sunlight captured by the tree 30, 40, 50 or more years ago. Wow!
The temperature got up to 44°F and the batteries were full by 1 p.m. The snow is going fast. But as much snow that fell the day before last, it is only going fast to slush. I opted out of snow-blowing the driveway, figuring it was going to melt quickly and we’re not really going anywhere. I just drove the truck up to get the mail (none), and even in four-wheel drive, it is a challenge driving through four, five inches of slush. It will be frozen tomorrow morning, and, I can only hope, less slush tomorrow afternoon.
No additional sap today, but I did get the 30 gallons boiled down to 3¾ quarts of syrup. This return means the sap had a high sugar content, so no complaints here! The syrup is very lightly colored, amber. In Vermont, such coloration used to be described as “fancy,” and many prefer it. While I like dark brown, it all tastes sweetly, delectably, wonderfully like nature’s finest to me. And the pancakes I will make from scratch tomorrow morning don’t notice what color the syrup is.
Clouds moved in this afternoon, so I’m not sure what’s in store tomorrow. I have to admit, there weren’t any stunning signs of spring’s arrival to note today. It’s hard not to be anxious. The last day of frost is the end of May here, and the time between then and the first frost in the third week of September is not a lot. Really, the end of May?
I’m thinking now of the asparagus I planted two years ago. I coaxed each and every shoot into big bushy ferns through the summers given the strict, horticultural advice: No harvesting for two years! It’s hard to imagine right now that the mound of snow that is the asparagus bed will (a) ever melt and (b) burst forth with delicious spears of vibrance and flavor shortly after the soil thaws.
This year, we will be able to help ourselves to three or four weeks of, hopefully, daily cuttings.
Wow (again)!