Today was a huge step forward in list-of-things-to-do-ness. I wonder why these steps hurt, when I have wanted to leave here for so long. If you had told me at ten that I would someday resist change the way I do, I would have skipped away and vowed to stay ten forever.
Instead I did the work, crossed duties off the list, made phone call after phone call. I poured the last cupful of maple syrup into a smaller jar and washed out this gigantic jug for the recycling bin. Where I’m going, maple hobbyists don’t prepare their own syrup and give it away to work colleagues or sell it at cost. The syrup in this jug was deep, dark, almost burgundy, worth any price. I drizzled it over countless bowls of steel-cut oats, plate after plate of French toast, and worked it into granola with pecans and coconut.
There’s sure to be some sort of maple-y goodness out west, trucked out from Quebec from some nameless érablière, thin and light-colored and technically good enough. Made for the consumer. But I will miss the deep, sexy sweetness from the friend-of-a-friend, the one who fills the generic opaque two-liter jugs with the good stuff.