Maple, Boiled Down

It starts as water.

A clear drip from a tap in a maple, collected early by someone in thick gloves who knows which trees run best, and when. Late winter, cold nights, warm days: the trees decide.

Then comes the patient work:

• the sap, hauled in
• the fire, kept steady
• the steam, rolling out through the roof

Boil it down far enough and the water leaves. Something sweet stays.

That is the secret of every good product: someone who flatly refuses to hurry it.

Canada has made it this way for generations.
It still tastes like a slow Saturday morning.