A sweet gift

Sugar bush is the sweetest time of the year. Here on the Fond du Lac Reservation, we make maple syrup every spring. For those seasons and reasons, I like Minnesota best. We are about to celebrate 150 years of statehood and 154 years of reservation living. Anishinaabeg have made maple syrup for much more than 154 generations. We are grateful to Gichi-manido, the Creator, for this annual gift. I make an offering of tobacco -- asema, in Ojibwe. My parents and grandparents made maple syrup every year, so it is natural that I would do the same. My children and grandchildren are learning, and two of my sons have their own sugar bush.

The cool March winds are a reminder of the past winter's cold.

The warmth of the sun promises the coming spring.

The tools I use are simple compared to the miles of tubing and the pumps used by commercial producers of maple syrup.

First, I check my taps and replace the ones that are worn out from use. I like using wooden taps because the wood expands and seals the holes that I make in the trees. I cut maple saplings to the right length, usually just a bit wider than my hand. I drill a hole through the center of the maple. I sit at the kitchen table and carve the sticks into taps. My wife doesn't mind the shavings on the floor; she calls it clean dirt.

I whittle a tapered shape at one end. I use a hole drilled in a piece of two-by-four to carve them to the right size. The hole in the two-by-four is the same size as the holes I make in the trees. On the other end of the stick, I carve notches to hold milk jugs.

The local dairy sells new milk jugs for a very low price. I get enough jugs for 200 holes. I cut a hole in the wall of the jug for the tap. On good days, the jugs hold a gallon of sap.

Before drilling, we make an offering of tobacco. One person selects and drills the trees, another removes the shavings. Someone else taps in the taps. Hearing the drip, drip, drip of the sap falling into the jugs feels good. The last person in line hangs a jug on the tap. Occasionally, the sap coming out of the tap will spurt like a heartbeat.

We bring the sap home to the fire pit. Above the pit is a framework made from maple trees that hold the large cast iron kettle.

I build a wall of firewood around the bottom of the kettle. This serves to keep the fire concentrated underneath. At first, wisps of steam come off the surface of the sap. Small bubbles begin to appear around the edges of the kettle. Finally, the sap begins a rolling boil. The steam billows out, seemingly eager to be free. The warmth of the fire is welcoming; the smell of firewood spreads around the yard.

In the olden days, the people used to rub bear fat around the rim of the kettle to keep it from foaming and boiling over. Today, I use a bit of salt pork suspended over the boiling liquid. It is magic; the sap boils up, touches the salt pork and goes back down.

We set up chairs around the fire and take turns adding sap, adding firewood and telling stories. It takes a long time to boil sap, but that is OK because everyone gets a chance to tell a story. For fun I will ask a young one what she saw and heard in the woods today. Others will join in and tell what they saw and heard. There are many smiles in the circle of people around the kettle.

Some years I get three gallons, other years 24. I never wonder about the amount, because it is all a gift from the Creator. The syrup I make lasts from season to season. We eat it and give the syrup away.

Before eating, I make a spirit dish and once again thank Gichi-manido for the gift of maple syrup.

I think there is something in that syrup that I need.

The generations of Anishinaabeg that came before me depended on it for food. There are old maple syrup stories, set in the time before Minnesota or the Fond du Lac Reservation or even before the Pilgrims stumbling ashore.

We know where our food comes from.