Post by Grubb.
It’s hard to stop at any town Vermont without getting a sugar fix. Ella’s already given you a picture of the maple syrup farm we visited. Thursday when we drove through Woodstock we decided to take a break and stretch our legs. We didn’t get but a couple of blocks before we found ourselves standing in line for maple creemees.
To reach the swirling pinnacle that is the signature of a creemee, I realize that it has to be soft enough to lick into but cold enough to resist immediate melt. I have a tendency to gobble, so creemees make my gums ache. The maple taste of my creemee was fine, but, hey, nothing competes with a nostalgic comparison and I’d have to say I prefer the butterscotch flavor that Dairy Queen used to make.
Thursday night I cooked up a batch of pancakes. This was so I could shovel in warm mouthfuls of delectable mush sweetened by 100% New Hampshire maple syrup. It was like having dessert for dinner.
Although I have to confess, if I were blindfolded I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the syrup that comes directly from the tree and the concoction that is mixed up in a chemistry lab. When the sweet goo hits my system it triggers the same bliss receptors. I’m a sugar bum. The smooth texture of any low-grade goop will get me off.