I have never liked pancakes.
Somewhere in my memory lurks a black cast iron skillet sizzling with melted Crisco and a batter so thick it almost required a deep-fry to cook through. Add to that greasy mess a thick sugary syrup and the end result is—what we call in my family—a sour belly. How many times did I get an upset stomach after eating pancakes as a child?
So when I sit next to a syrup-making man at a luncheon and he shares about his syrup-making business, his face shining as he talks, I surprise myself by accepting an invitation to visit his sugar house.
“You should come out to the farm and see for yourself,” he says. “Come this weekend if you can. The sap should be running nice and fast.”
So I do.