Circa 1973, I, my brother and pals made our own maple syrup, huffing it through the north woods snow to poke trees, then checking and rechecking the slowly filling “buckets” positioned just below each “spigot,” then spending endless hours boiling down the sap, all the while regaling each other with naughty jokes around the nighttime camp fire in the backyard.
Alas, when we finally got around to pouring - what had tasted so delicious at the end of our dipped fingers - over pancakes at home, we all went: “This sucks! Give me the Aunt Jemimah.”
BILL
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