My father never cared much for big holidays, but he loved sugaring season.
Every March, our family ended up in the same little sugarhouse outside Montpelier, tracking mud inside, boiling sap too late into the night, and pretending we were not tired. He kept a thermometer clipped to a nail and said syrup taught patience better than church ever did.
After he passed, my brother and I tried to run it one season without him. We burned the first batch and laughed because Dad would have been furious.
This Vermont hex is for him, and for that sweet smoke smell I still miss.