Baby Yub-Yub has taken a keen interest in our daily trips out to the two birches that we’ve tapped. She grabs the big green 5-gallon buckets we use to haul the sap and carries it around asking, “Tree waa-waa?” Tree water? As soon as we pour off a bucket of sap, she bends down and sloshes her hands in the cold, clear liquid. We boil a little more down each day on our range. It makes the house damp even with the oven vent fan blowing. The windows fog up, and the kitchen stays nice and warm.
One night, I glanced over to see what looked like a sudden increase in steam coming out of our pot . . . Actually, it’s our housemate, Tifin’s, pot. Something smelled funny . . . Oh, no. We jumped up, quickly turned off the gas, and ran outside with the smoking pot held between two oven mitts and set it in one of the few remaining snowbanks, despairing that we’d have to buy our housmate a new pot. (Sorry, Tifin.) Fortunately, the pot was scraped clean the next day, and we, chastened by the experience, now watch our sap more closely. (P.S. Tifin said not to sweat it. She got the pot at T.J. Max.)
One night, I glanced over to see what looked like a sudden increase in steam coming out of our pot . . . Actually, it’s our housemate, Tifin’s, pot. Something smelled funny . . . Oh, no. We jumped up, quickly turned off the gas, and ran outside with the smoking pot held between two oven mitts and set it in one of the few remaining snowbanks, despairing that we’d have to buy our housmate a new pot. (Sorry, Tifin.) Fortunately, the pot was scraped clean the next day, and we, chastened by the experience, now watch our sap more closely. (P.S. Tifin said not to sweat it. She got the pot at T.J. Max.)
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