"They don't make them like this anymore," I say, holding it to the light.
"No, they don't." There's something in his voice that makes me look up. He's watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
I return the hydrometer to its stand. "Thank you for showing me all this. It's fascinating."
"You actually mean that," he says, sounding surprised.
"Of course. Why wouldn't I?"
He shrugs. "Most people your age wouldn't find this interesting. They'd be checking their phones, wondering when they could get back to civilization."
The casual ageism makes me laugh. "Most people my age aren't chefs. And I left civilization on purpose, remember?"
"Right. Your mysterious sabbatical."
"Not mysterious. Just private."
The syrup has reached its final stage. He tests it with the refractometer, then begins the filtering process. I watch as he works with methodical rigour. The aroma intensifies—sweet, rich, complex.
I move closer, watching as he begins to fill bottles. The amber liquid catches the light, glowing like captured sunshine.
He works in silence, filling and capping each bottle with precise movements. I notice how he tests each cap, giving it a quarter turn to ensure it's sealed properly. Nothing wasted, nothing left to chance.
"You're very meticulous," I observe.
"Is that a criticism or a compliment?"
"Definitely a compliment. Especially with food."
He nods. "It matters. Getting it right."
"Yes," I say softly. "It does."
He finishes the last bottle, wiping it clean before adding it to the row of others. The completed batch gleams in the warm light.
"They're beautiful," I say. "Like liquid topaz."
He looks pleased despite himself. "They'll need to cool before labeling. We should head to the cabin now, before the storm gets any worse."
The wind howls around the sugar shack, snow and ice pelting the windows with renewed force.
"Should I bring anything?" I ask, reaching for my coat.
"Just yourself." He begins shutting down the evaporator. "I'll come back in the morning to check on things."
I slip on my coat, watching as he moves through his closing ritual.
"Ready?" he asks, bundling up against the cold.
"Ready."
He leads me to a door at the back of the sugar shack. "This connects to a path to the cabin. It'll be easier than going back outside directly."
The door opens onto a covered walkway with walls that block most of the wind. Snow has drifted in at the edges, but the center remains passable.
"Smart design," I comment as we step into the passageway.
"Necessity. You don't want to be fighting through snowdrifts when it's twenty below and you're carrying hot syrup."
