Tag: Norman Rockwell

Map-Sap Goodness

A few months ago, authorities in New Zealand wrapped up a five-month sting where they confiscated the largest import of methamphetamine in the country’s history. Millions of dollars of the liquid stimulant were discovered in, of all places, a shipment of maple syrup jugs. Agents swapped out the drugs with water and let the jugs continue to Australia, where the recipients were quickly apprehended. Did this story captivate me?  Why yes it did, but not because of a million-dollar drug bust. I pretty much stopped reading at jugs of maple syrup.

With all due respect to fruit, I think maple syrup is the better example of “nature’s candy”.  After all, it’s essentially organic liquid sugar.  If you have the tree, the tools and the time (a lot of time), you can tap your own supply.  Simply drill a hole into the trunk of your sugar maple tree, hang a bucket below the opening, and let the goodness s-l-o-w-l-y flow.  After you’ve collected what you need, boil off the water, filter off the crystallized sugar, and your pancakes or waffles are set to be topped.

Sugar maple

If you prefer a more solid sweet, make snow candy like Little House on the Prairie’s Laura Ingalls did back in the day.  Pour boiling maple syrup into short lines on a fresh bed of snow.  Press Popsicle sticks into the lines.  Then roll the cooling syrup around the sticks and voila! – a sweet handheld-treat.  Last Saturday’s arrival of the fall season makes this confection seem extra appealing.

My very favorite doughnuts are maple bars

In the U.S., “real” maple syrup is not so common anymore.  Years ago at my childhood breakfasts I was already consuming imitators like Log Cabin, Mrs. Butterworth’s, or Aunt Jemima (more recently known as “Pearl Milling Company”).  These brands and countless others are known as “table syrups”, made from corn syrup and chemicals instead of anything found in a tree.  They can’t even use the word “maple” in their names because of a consumer protection law known as the Pure Food and Drug Act.

Maple sugar

Enough about the impersonators.  Maple syrup’s rich flavor and density should be the preference to table syrup’s as long as a) Your taste buds can be reeducated, and b) you’re willing to spend a few more pennies.  And maple syrup is just a step removed from some distinctive treats.  Maple sugar candy is compacted maple sugar formed into small squares or maple leaves (delicious!)  Maple taffy is what you get if you boil maple syrup past its liquid form.  And for the truly obsessed (me), you’ll also find maple versions of toffee, butter, and liqueurs.

Treacle tart

Let’s take a paragraph for a confection of honorable mention.  Ever heard of a treacle tart?  Yes you have, if you know the timeless children’s classic Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.  In the story, the evil Child Catcher in the fictional village of Vulgaria tempts young Jeremy and Jemima Potts with ice cream, candy, and treacle tarts (“and all for free!”)  Those tarts are small pastries filled with maple syrup, breadcrumbs, and a splash of lemon juice, served warm with a cream topping.  Yum.  Catch me if you can, Child Catcher.

If you know your flags, you can guess which country produces most of the world’s maple syrup.  Canada accounts for fully 80%, with most of the sweet stuff coming from the province of Quebec.  Vermont’s production is similarly dominant compared to other U.S. states.  Both locales are northern climates, where sugar maple trees thrive in the cold winters.  So as much as I’d like to channel my inner L.L. Bean by planting a maple tree and drilling a hole, donned in flannel shirt and snow boots, it’s never going to happen here in hot-and-humid South Carolina.  Guess I’ll have to settle for a store-bought jug of nature’s candy instead.

Some content sourced from the Deutsche Welle (DW) article, “Authorities find drugs worth millions hidden in maple syrup”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Teacher of Note(s)

In church last Sunday, early in the service, the congregation was treated to a beautiful rendition of the hymn, “My God and I”.  The young female soloist, introduced with aspirations of the Broadway stage, stood poised behind the microphone, beaming through pitch-perfect singing.  As captivating as she might have been, my attention was drawn to her much older accompanist; a bespectacled white-haired woman at the piano, carefully dividing attention between sheet music and protege.  Wordless communication was exchanged; subtle nods of encouragement; cursory, confident smiles.  And just like that I was no longer in church, but back in second grade, toiling away at the keyboard in anticipation of my weekly piano lesson.

Josephine Siple [Sahy-puhl] – a name and face I’ll remember until my dying day – was my piano teacher from age eight until well into high school.  Why I remember her first name is a mystery (she was always “Mrs. Siple” to me) – perhaps adults said it often enough.  Josephine was the perfect embodiment of a grandmother – the white silvery hair, the abundance of wrinkles, the old-fashioned glasses, the matronly clothes, the wry smiles, and the soothing demeanor to make you feel more like a family member than a piano student.  But make no mistake; Josephine was first and foremost a teacher, educating her students as much about life’s lessons as she did the notes on the page.

To add to my Norman Rockwell painting (or take away from it), Josephine lived in an unusual house just a few doors up from my own, which I traveled to by bike.  It looked and felt much more like a fortress than a residence.  You passed through an imposing wooden doorway into a stone-floored foyer.  All I remember was the vast living room to the left (the piano lesson room, with a grand and an upright side-by-side), and the rustic kitchen to the right.  A front-and-center staircase disappeared to the second level (where, for all I knew, Mr. Siple dwelled).

Bless you, Google Earth, for I confirmed – fifty years later – Josephine’s house still stands (photo above).  Her place may have been uninviting, but Josephine found a way to make it feel warm and welcoming, even to a timid child.  She would host recitals for parents in the big living room, allowing her students the luxury of a performance at the grand piano.  I can still picture Josephine in the kitchen afterwards, happily serving and chatting behind a big glass punch bowl loaded up with a concoction of 7-Up and lime sherbet, boiling and fizzing like witch’s brew.

     

A good friend confided in me recently about his granddaughter’s impatience.  He said she’d begun piano lessons – about the same age I was – but simply refused to practice.  Her parents, with utter resignation (and delusions), allowed their daughter to move on to the violin instead.  Why on earth would they endorse an infinitely-more difficult instrument when mere piano practice was already too high a hurdle?

Piano practice was never a problem for me, and I give Josephine all the credit.  She instilled a sense of responsibility which I know translated to a stick-with-it attitude in other aspects of life.  I remember one lesson where I knew I hadn’t practiced enough the week prior.  Josephine sensed it immediately, and though the exact wording escapes me, her comment had just enough, um, wisdom and sting to reevaluate my priorities.  I never showed up unprepared again.

As things are wont to do in childhood, my piano practice and lessons eventually fell by the wayside, in favor of other activities which pale by comparison.  Thanks to Josephine, I entered a few piano competitions. (I was no Van Cliburn contestant but I certainly learned how to perform under pressure.)  Thanks to Josephine, I explored outside of my comfort zone: lessons on the church organ; percussion instruments in the school orchestra; dabbles with flute in college.  None of those instruments consumed me like the piano. Then again, none of those teachers were Josephine.

My piano teacher extraordinaire is long gone, but the memories and lessons she gave me are life-long companions.  I can resurrect Josephine in a heartbeat, as through an accompanist in church.  I can also bring her back in other seemingly-random moments, reminding me her teachings went well beyond the piano.