Just Say "NO" to Mrs. Butterworth!

If your household is anything like mine -- in the most general of senses -- then there's always something going on.  Especially if there are children floating about.  It doesn't matter what age.  Someone at sometime in some way has an ax to grind, a knife to sharpen, a fork to poke, and spoon to scoop.  At anything and everything.  And the scope and scale vary from day to day.  Last week, such a something occurred.  With the help of a fork and a tree.

Recently, one of my sweet sunshine rays of goodness and light had himself a moment that just about floored me.  Though what I'm about to say may seem insignificant when placed next to the behemoth issues which often run rampant across the ceramic tiles of our kitchen and the stained carpet of our stairs, it's a biggie for this nature-loving, uber-recycling, health-conscious mom who yearns for just a glimpse of her idealistic influences within the hearts and minds of her babies gone hormonal.

(A self-portrait of the syrup-sucking son circa 2002!)

I'm a fan of real maple syrup.  Beautiful light amber and handsome dark amber.  Grade A and grade B. Liquid gold.  Naturally derived and without unnatural enhancements.  It's history on this continent reaches back to a time before the white man ran his ships ashore.  I think of the colonists who, having learned the secret from native Americans, passed the trade down from generation to generation.  There are a host of complex flavors hinting at the transition from winter to spring which spurs the sugar maple trees into producing the wondrous sap for boiling down from a vat to a bucket.  It takes roughly 43 gallons to make one gallon of this lovely rich ooze; and the demand has yet to be outstripped by supply.  Obviously, this translates into a pricey product.  But with such a unique and warm profile, it stands heads and shoulders above any and all competition in the breakfast condiment arena.  Not to mention how it transforms ice cream and sweet potatoes.  My favorite use is with my oatmeal and flax most mornings -- a bit of butter, a dash of cinnamon, and a handful of nuts . . . delightful!

 
That thick viscous stuff  masquerading as syrup in myriad formulations of butter-flavored, lite, even maple-flavored, stored in lob-cabin'ish squeeze bottles and glass bottles shaped like ample-figured house cooks from an era best not memorialized in such a fashion, does little to titillate my tastebuds.  I'd rather swear off French toast and waffles for the remainder of my life than taint them with such drivel.  Besides the high-fructose corn syrup found in a place of prominence on the ingredient list, there's a host of other additions with names even I have trouble pronouncing.  Though it is quite cheap in comparison to its naturally-derived cousin, what it produces on the palate is often just as cheap.  It offers no depth of flavor other than that of bland white sugar.  And though my affection for sweets cannot be pushed off to the side of the road here, a sweet should reflect flavors -- be they chocolate or lemon, vanilla or caramel, berry or MAPLE -- which have been enhanced by sugar, and NOT run over by a Mack truck spilling a surplus of the grainy white stuff everywhere!

And THAT is exactly why my kids loved the fake stuff.  Much to my chagrin.  For most of their young lives, they worked those bottles of lite artificial syrup, suffocating their poor whole grain pancakes to within an inch of their short existences, and all the while their mama lovingly Maple-drizzled her biscuits with the respect due such a wonderful example of baking.

(While I don't have a pic of Zach eating his waffles, this here is my niece, Grace, 

enjoying her Auntie G's waffles quite some time ago.)

About a year ago, I did one of my motherly about-faces and banished said pseudo-syrups from the pantry.  Needless to say, the Valdez household experienced a revival of breakfast cereal for several months before one-by-one the members begin to defect.  Our Canadian friends would be proud!  But, alas, there was one holdout.  My sugar-baby boy.  He held steadfast and missed out on some of my best waffle iron work ever.  I didn't budge.  Not once.  Not ever.  Not to save a dime.  Well, until I did.  Last week.  I figured if a year had transpired and his palate had not evolved, this was a battle best surrendered.  The nutrition inherent with my style of cooking and baking could balance out this equation.  You win some.  You lose some.  (But I so-o wanted to WIN!)

(Gratuitous shot of ONE of aforementioned Canadian friends.)

So, it's the scene of one of our breakfast-for-dinner nights.  His perfectly done waffles, crisp on the outside and steaming with tenderness from the inside, underwent his precise application of butter to each of the square cells on their surfaces.  Then, excitedly, Zachary grabs the cheap bottle of crappy goo and lets it loose.  His knife and fork work in tandem to release a bite.  The fork journeys to his mouth.  Several chews occur.  He swallows.  A queer look crosses his features, followed by the words I'd given up on ever hearing, "That is so gross.  It's thick.  Yuck."  He grins before pounding the sap-collecting spout all the way into our family tree, "I guess I like maple syrup better now."


Now THAT . . . is a something in my house.