It's late winter in Western Massachusetts.  Which means that we're all sick and tired of freezing our asses off and have completely forgotten that the cold weather didn't even begin this year until a good six weeks later than normal, giving us a nice long reprieve that should have taken the edge off enduring the short winter that inevitably did arrive.  But we've all thoroughly forgotten about that freakish stretch of Al Gore inspired balminess and settled right into our pissed-off sickofitall grumpy March selves.  Earlier this week it was zero degrees with a 35 mph wind, and I feared the chihuahua might freeze solid during her brief outdoor sojourns to do her business.  A thick crust of impenetrably solid snow and ice covers any ground that didn't get shoveled during the last snowstorm about two weeks ago.  A rime of dirt, road sand and salt covers every outdoor surface and the skies alternate between thick gray blankets of clouds, unbroken from horizon to horizon, and a blinding, crystal clear sun that throws no heat or comfort whatsoever as it only appears when temperatures drop below 10 degrees.  The nights that follow these harshly clear days are so cold that stars  look like sharp crystals in deep black glass, beautiful but deadly.

So we are looking this time of year - looking for any tiny sign of encouragement, any notion that the end might be near, that the frozen petrified world might come to life, that something besides the wind and the things wind blows around might begin to move on their own.  And the first thing that we grasp at here in the rural hinterlands are the trees.  Not the leaves of the trees, which won't even begin to show signs of budding for a good four weeks, and will take another two weeks after that to start sprouting.  It's not what you see on the outside of the tree that matters, it's what's going on on the inside.  On the inside,  things are happening, and on the very rare warmer days, sap is starting to flow inside the trees.  Because here in Western Massachusetts we still have a good amount of forest around, and because a good portion of that forest consists of maple trees, flowing sap means it is maple sugaring season.  And maple sugaring season means it's time to go eat breakfast at a bona fide sugar house.

For those of you unfamiliar with the concept of a sugar house, it's technically any of the small specially constructed barns where maple sugar is traditionally made by boiling enormous amounts of gathered maple tree sap over big wood fires.  They dot the hills a short jaunt up into the woods from our home, and range from small mom-and-pop operations that produce a few dozen gallons a year mostly for family and friends, to big business, tapping thousands of trees and shipping the sweet gold result all over the world.  However, for those of us not in the business of making the syrup, but definitely interested in consuming it, the sugar houses we really care about are the ones that open to the public this time of year and serve food.  Most restaurant-style sugar houses are open at most 6 weeks a year, generally from late February through early April.  They are always family-run operations, and it's all about the rustic. 



Over the years I've visited enough sugar houses to have developed a laundry list of qualities that make for the quintessential sugar house experience.  Since this is New England, and sugar housing is about reaching the end of winter, there is a ritualistic nature to the experience that is almost symbolic of life's greater struggle.  A true sugar house experience must reflect this yin/yang of the pleasure and pain of life to be truly worthwhile.  So, here is my ultimate list of what a sugar housing experience ought to consist of.

First, the sugar house needs to be located in the ass end of nowhere.  It needs to be a lengthy drive from home, into parts of the "hilltowns" as we call them around here, that are deep, dark and somewhat mysterious to those of us living in the valley.  Preferably the road they are located on will either be dirt, unnamed, or thoroughly pocked with miles of axle-busting potholes.  You will get lost several times on the way and maps will prove useless.  Signs will be unreliable or will peter out at crucial junctures.  The amount of snow in the surrounding area will be at least triple what it is at home. 

Second, once you have at last found the mysterious sugar house location,  the parking lot of the sugar house will be a large, unpaved, mud wallow.  On warmer days, big boots will be required to walk from your car to the sugar house, and you might lose one in six inches of mud along the way (wear thick socks).  On colder days, the previously churned up mud will have frozen solid into a bumpy, grooved, tire tracked mess covered with ice and ankle turning dips.  Do not be deterred.  Only the weak are deterred.  You are a New Englander.  You may be dumb as a post, but you are not weak.

Next, despite the impossibility of finding the sugar house and getting through the parking lot from the parked car to the sugar house itself, you will discover that hundreds of people have arrived there before you, mostly from places much further away than you live, such as New York.  There will be an enormous line and at least a 45 minute wait to be seated.  There will be no indoor waiting area, or only a tiny one, and you will have to stand outdoors in a very long, very slow moving line.  It will be 5 degrees outside with a 15 mph steady wind.  There will be no coffee.  It will be 7 AM in the morning because you came early to avoid the rush.  It will actually take over an hour for the line to snake its way into the tiny door of the very low slung old barn that does not even look as if it should still be standing, or as if normal sized people could possibly stand upright inside it. 



Once you finally arrived within and your frostbitten limbs and face are slowly beginning to thaw, you will sit at a very long table in a row of very long tables, each seating around 30 people, and made of unfinished wood.  Seating will consist of tree stumps.  Probably some of you think I am exaggerating or kidding at this point.  I'm not.  I have actually experienced all this while sugar housing.

Once you are seated on your stump and have a chance to look around, you will see that every one of the 20 people or so working there, either in the dining room or in the kitchen or boiling the sap in big vats behind glass windows so customers can watch, has the exact same nose.  Or eyes.  Or other distinguishing facial characteristic.  These are big hilltown families and everyone works during maple sugaring season.

Finally, after the appropriate amount of stoic suffering, the payoff arrives.  Although even dog food would seem delicious in the frozen, starving, coffee-deprived state you have been reduced to, something even better arrives.  Stacks of fluffy homemade blueberry pancakes.  Bowls of crispy crunchy corn and apple fritters.  Big airy waffles.  Thick french toast with swirls of cinammon.  Tubs of soft, real butter.  Fresh fruit.  Hot coffee.  And, of course, big stainless steel pitchers of fresh maple syrup for no extra charge.  The whole experience must be a decadent and guilt-free one and any mention of dieting or weight loss is strictly verboten.  Carbo-load away and just expect to while away the remainder of the day in a sugar-crashed haze of lethargy.

Finally, warm and sated, suck down one final cup of coffee and make your way off the tree stump and over to the gift shop.  Watch the cheesy video on the cheap 10" TV on how maple syrup is made.  Gawk at the men in coveralls feeding wood into the maw of the sap boiler.  Stand in the clouds of steam emanating from the boiler and inhale the heavenly mapley smell.  Mosey on over to the gift shop and pick up maple candy, maple cream, maple syrup in a bottle shaped like a maple leaf, and some homemade hilltown herbal organic soap.  Carefully pick your way back to the car, teetering over ice and mud in your bloated state, and make your way home.  Collapse in gluttonous, repulsive heap on the couch and watch bad movies all afternoon, ignoring the dogs' hopeful whimpers for a nice walk that might possibly burn off some of your hard earned calories. 

You have officially celebrated the end of winter.  Congratulations, you are ready for spring.