Tapping the Maples at the Ohio Maple Festival

This weekend we drove an hour North, deep into the Ohio countryside, to learn all about maple syrup. I had just learned that Ohio is the third largest producer of maple syrup in the US, and March is maple tapping season. When the weather is still freezing at night, but thawing during the day, the sap flows, gathering into steel buckets throughout the Northeastern United States and Canada.

We drove through windy country roads around soft green hills before pulling up to the Malabar Farm State Park. The afternoon air was crisp when we stepped out of the minivan, and it felt like the first time we were truly breathing in months. Nothing like good, clean, country air to clear away months of being cooped up inside. The kids' feet made mucky noises sloshing through the mud as we made our way to the draft horse pulled wagon that would ferry us to the maple camp.

We counted maple buckets the entire way up, amazed to see that maple syrup really does come from trees. At the maple camp, we watched a few demonstrations of maple syrup production since early American history. We learned that the practice of using maple sap as a sweetener was given to the pilgrims by the Native Americans. Once the settlers saw that they had an inexpensive sweetener growing right around them, they refined their methods by using copper pots instead of carved out logs as a boiling vessel.
We even got to taste the maple sugar made on an open fire the same way it was over a hundred years ago, and can vouch that it was well worth licking our palms for every last crumb.

Finally we headed into the modern sugar shack, where Malabar Farms produces their maple syrup. We started by tasting the light and sweet Malabar Farms maple syrup, draining every last drop of our paper cups. Then we learned that maple sap has a 2% sugar concentration, and that it must be boiled down to 66% sugar concentration before it can be called maple syrup. Depending on the lateness of the harvest and the amount of boiling, it can then turn different hues. The darkest and most pungent syrup is called Grade B and is mostly used to combine with corn syrup and bottle as Aunt Jemima or other imitation maple syrup. I've always been a maple syrup snob, but now knowing that the fake stuff is mostly corn syrup, I'll climb even higher on my pedestal to spread the gospel of maple syrup.

No tour is complete without the gift shop, and this was one stop the kids were thrilled to make. We loaded up on enough maple products to keep them sugared up til the following March: maple cotton candy, maple sugar, maple candy, and of course, a few jars of maple syrup. And just to balance out all the sweet, we grabbed a few hot dogs boiled in maple sap and listened to a little country music before heading home, full and happy, on our bales of hay in our horse-drawn wagon.

Say Hi to your Friends in La La Land

I'm beginning to get the sense that sports in the Midwest are a big deal. A really big deal.

Of course I noticed all the Buckeye Ohio State University paraphernalia when we came to visit. It was hard to miss the t-shirts, bumper stickers, mugs, and house flags. I thought that I might have to finally really try to understand the rules of football once we moved here, and that I might even have to plop my behind on a freezing stadium seat at some point.

But I didn't realize that the sports enthusiasm spilled over into regular sports, the every day athletics for us mere mortals not playing college football.

When I registered Jack for soccer, something he would have had to wait another year to start in New Jersey, I was shocked to learn that his Ohio peers began playing in preschool. In the fall, when the season will begin, he will have soccer twice a week: one day of practice, and another of games. Sounds like a lot, but I think he will have a blast, especially as his daddy is coaching. Not sure which one is in for a ruder awakening.

My rude awakening took place this week, when I started playing tennis. I played in New Jersey twice a week, once for a foursome lesson with an instructor and another for a relaxed doubles game with friends. We often complained when our pro took it too easy for us. We complained that we wanted to sweat, wanted to be put to the test. But most of the time, the pros treated us like old ladies to be.

When I walked on the court on Tuesday, I expected more of the same. I started hitting the ball, pleased to see that my fellow players were really good. After a few minutes of warm up, the drills began in earnest. A quick play was explained, and the balls began flying.

I was keeping up, breathing hard, but feeling okay. A child walked by, calling to his mom, and I turned my head, momentarily distracted. The loud voice of the instructor called me back to earth, "Hello! Vanessa! Say hi to your friends in La La Land!" I blushed, laughed, apologized. She smiled and said, "Don't apologize, just play."

We got back to work, running, hitting cross court, punching volleys. A few minutes later, a ball whizzed past my racket, in that mysterious hole that sometimes appears where strings should be. Again, the instructor jeered, "Oh no! Looks like we have another Helen Keller on the court!" The other players laughed, and I did too, swearing silently to myself that I would not be missing any more balls. ... And I didn't.

I worked my butt off for two hours, sweating more than I had in months. The next day, I could barely lift my arm. And it felt wonderful. It was incredible to be pushed, to be treated like an athlete, to feel young again.

Sports in Ohio seem a little more intense, and I'm ready. Game on!