When I wake up on Red and Judy's farm, in the white, slanted-ceiling bedroom tucked in the upper corner of the house, I wake up into a book. I am a character, a blonde barnyard girl with pigtail braids and muddy-kneed overalls. I stretch, imagining chores I am not actually responsible for with romantic mis-idealism: milking the cow on a little three-legged stool, or pulling smooth white eggs from beneath obliging hens, my freckled hands rooting around in the straw, until I discover the treasure. I can feel the egg cradled in the palm of my hand, as the clear autumn sunlight reveals the floating dust above my homemade quilt.

We eat pancakes for breakfast at a table under a vaulted, exposed-beam ceiling, and I marvel at the strange farm decor: carved wooden roosters perched atop a cabinet, peacock feathers displayed proudly in a vase, as if they were fresh-cut daisies. The butter is almost pure white, and, rather than stick-shaped, sits in heavy spoonfuls in a glass bowl, a wooden knife for spreading. I pour more of the strong maple syrup from an old rust-colored glass bottle; it cuts straight through the pancake, spreading its espresso, wooden flavors through the fluffy batter, making each bite spongy, sticky and ready to dissovle without chewing into my mouth. Today, I am going to uncover the secret of this strange recipe, so unlike the lighter, sweeter grocery-store plastic-bottle lookalike. Red is taking us sugaring.

Red's name came to him honestly, an Amish-style ring of beard circling his chin the color of his hen's breast-feathers. Several years before this day, when I was only seven and met