"So it seems." His voice has dropped slightly, taking on a gruff quality that sends a shiver down my spine.
We stand there for a moment, the tasting glass between us, steam rising around our figures. He's easily twenty years older, with experience etched into the lines around his eyes. He radiates a certainty that men my age rarely possess.
"Can I see your filtering setup?" I ask, breaking the moment.
He nods. "It's a custom rig. Designed it myself."
I follow him to a workbench where a series of filters are arranged. "Multiple stages," I observe. "Like clarifying a consommé."
"Similar principle. Each filter removes progressively finer particulates without affecting the flavor profile."
I lean closer, examining the setup. "Did you adapt this from another industry, or develop it specifically for syrup production?"
He glances at me with renewed interest. "Adapted it from commercial wine filtration, but modified for higher viscosity liquids. How did you know?"
"The configuration is similar to systems I've seen in small-batch wineries."
He makes a sound, something between a grunt and a laugh. "You're full of surprises."
"I try to be," I say, smiling.
The storm intensifies, wind howling around the eaves. A strong gust rattles the windows, sending ice crystals against the glass. The contrast between the cold outside and the warmth in here creates an atmosphere of isolation.
"Sounds like it's getting worse out there," I observe.
"It is." He moves back to the evaporator. "We'll need to finish this batch before heading to the cabin. Once it reaches the right concentration, it can't wait."
"Can I help?"
"No." His tone is firm but not unkind. "It's a delicate process."
I nod. "Of course. It's your kitchen."
He glances up at that, something flickering in his expression. "Yes. It is."
I return to watching him work, noting how he constantly adjusts and monitors. There's a rhythm to his movements, a dance of attention and care.
"How did you learn all this?" I ask. "Syrup-making, I mean."
"Trial and error, mostly. Books. A few old-timers who were willing to share their knowledge."
"Self-taught, then."
"The best way to learn anything that matters."
"Not always. Sometimes you need a teacher."
He looks up, meeting my eyes. "Depends on the subject. And the teacher."
I look away, suddenly very interested in a collection of hydrometers on a nearby shelf.
"These are beautiful," I say. "Antique?"
"Some of them. The brass ones were my grandfather's."
"May I?" I ask, hand hovering near one.
He nods, watching as I lift a brass hydrometer from its stand. It's heavier than it looks, the metal warm from the ambient heat. The craftsmanship is exquisite, numbers etched with precision.
