So I live in New England, which is one of those places where people are really, really proud of how cold it is. New Englanders like to give the impression that they're tougher than and morally superior to you because they're immune to the cold that they choose to live in.
This is complete and utter bullshirt. New Englanders get just as depressed in the wintertime as any other right-thinking mammal without the option to hibernate. The secret of people who continue to live in New England, vs. those who grab a degree and promptly skeedaddle someplace where your face doesn't hurt for 3 months of the year, is that they develop coping mechanisms.
Popular New England winter coping mechanisms include:
Wondering where all the snow is, and blaming climate change
Cussing the large quantity of snow that's befallen you, and blaming climate change
Looking forward to climate change, because then it won't be so cold
Snickering when it snows someplace south of the Mason-Dixon line and no one shows up for work except the female legislators
Maple tapping
Because the dang weather at least gets us trees that make sugar. Maple sap runs on those freeze/thaw days that also produce icicles and potholes, all the potholes, but let's focus on the maple syrup.
So in March of 2021, I lose my mind and decide to make my own maple syrup. It doesn't matter that I'm living in the suburbs and am the legal owner of maybe three maple trees. You see
It's March of 2021, the pandemic has been going on for a year, and I need to take my mind off waiting for the vaccine
My immigrant family knew death by starvation as recently as my grandparents' generation, so I can't just leave calories unharvested
We live in the magical age of internet enablement and I can have all the necessary supplies in less than a week
I really like maple syrup
Within 48 hours I have a head full of maple-tapping instructions from the University of Maine and a handful of spiles. It isn't until I start looking for the correct size of drill bit that my husband, legal co-owner of said trees, realizes I'm serious.
Him: You're going to do this? Tonight?
Me: YES.
Him: There are no leaves. Are just going to drill all the trees and hope some are maples?
Me: I remember what we rake.
Him: Do we even have sugar maples?
Me: Doesn't matter. Any maple sap will make syrup.
Him: How did you get spiles?
Me: Amazon.
And now my husband is looking at me with a very special look on his face, because not only is he from Vermont, maple syrup capital of the United States, he grew up in the middle of the woods, not a single tree of which has ever been tapped to make maple syrup because my in-laws just aren't into that. But maple tapping was totally a thing that everyone else did, and the look he's giving me says, more clearly than wedding vows, "Okay, fine, I'll help."
So at 10 PM on a Friday night, we tromp across our very suburban lawn, and start drilling into trees and hoping the neighbors can't hear me giggling, "Yeah, I'd totally tap that." And we get maple sap! But because we start so late in the season, and because maple sap makes syrup at a 40:1 ratio, we end up with about two tablespoons of maple fudge (I over-evaporated). I am ecstatic, and feel like I'm upholding the honor of ancestors who wrested calories from stern Nature, rather than the shelves of Market Basket, though I am well aware that many of said ancestors would probably roll their eyes and ask why I want to do things the hard way.
But the point is, I now have something to look forward to during the New England winter. The weeks ago, I pulled out the spiles and collection jugs and as we speak, I'm getting my tree sugar. 🌳🍁🥞
(This is the total maple syrup I got last year. It was delicious.)