On Maine Maple Sunday, Elizabeth Peavey jets from sugarhouse to sugarhouse, sampling Maine’s sweet and sticky treat.
By Elizabeth Peavey
Photography by Ted Axelrod
The moment my husband, John, and I pull open the door of the shack and enter from the cold, it feels like we’re walking into a sweet, sticky sauna. Our glasses steam up. The aroma of hot griddle floats above the din of cheerful voices. We have to press ourselves into the crowd, as though entering a subway car at rush hour, and find our way to the end of the line. With my specs in hand, I fuzzily make out row after row of picnic tables filled with families, elders and tots, elbow to elbow, hunched over their own personal Styrofoam plates of the lightest, fluffiest pancakes imaginable. One chubby girl of seven or eight seems to be wrestling with hers. Her plastic fork can’t quite cut through the spongy interior. Finally, she daintily pins down an edge of the pancake with one finger and, with her fork, stretches a bite up into her mouth.
Okay, so I’m staring at her. I don’t care. All I can think is Hurry up, kid. People are standing here starving.
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