At My Neighbor’s Co., we believe the ingredients that go into our bodies carry the story of the hands that made them. There’s a certain kind of healing that only comes from working with your hands.

For Ashley Ruprecht, co-founder of Laurel & Ash Farm in Holmes, New York, maple syrup season is less about romance and more about rhythm — long days shaped by weather, wood smoke, sap flow, and the constant movement between motherhood and the forest.

What emerges from that work is not only maple syrup, but a deeper connection to patience, seasonality, and the land itself.

Below, Ashley shares what sugaring season truly feels like — physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

What does a day in sugaring season actually feel like in your body?

Sugaring season is one of the most physical times of year on the farm. The days are long and shaped entirely by the weather and the sap flow, so there's a constant sense of movement and responsiveness. It feels like early mornings and cold air — the rhythm of lifting logs, tending the fire, checking the lines, and moving back and forth between the woods, the sugarhouse, and home life.

It's demanding work, especially while balancing motherhood alongside it, but there's also something deeply grounding about being so connected to the land and the season in such a tangible way.

By the end of the day there's that familiar mix of exhaustion and satisfaction that comes from making something slowly and carefully with your hands. Sugaring asks a lot of you physically, but it gives a lot back. It's one of the times of year I feel most connected to why we chose this life and this work as a family.

What's the least romantic part of making maple syrup that people don't see?

Probably the chaos.

Sugaring season is beautiful, but it's also unpredictable and very physical. It can look like trudging through two feet of snow to reach trees that still need tapping, or dealing with “ropey” syrup that can't be filtered and has to be discarded after hours of work. It can mean managing a back pan that suddenly starts to overflow while you're in the middle of filtering another batch — or noticing the vacuum has dropped and having to find a leak somewhere deep in the woods.

There are moments when everything seems to be happening at once. Doing all of this while also moving through the rhythms of motherhood adds another layer. There's always a child who needs something, a meal to make, boots to find, a transition between the woods and home life happening in the same breath.

It's not always graceful. But that chaos is also part of the process. Sugaring teaches patience, constant learning, and flexibility in a very real way. You learn to respond to what the day brings.

What does sap feel like in your hands before it becomes syrup?

Before it becomes syrup, sap feels almost like cold water in your hands — clear, light, and surprisingly more like spring water than anything sweet.

It runs quickly when the season is right, and there's something hopeful about that first contact each year. It doesn't yet carry the warmth or richness people associate with maple syrup. It's subtle and quiet at that stage.

It always reminds me how much patience the process asks of us, and how something so simple at the start slowly becomes something deeply nourishing through time and care.

What's something you had to unlearn to work in rhythm with the land?

I've had to unlearn my constant need for immediate gratification.

Working in rhythm with the land requires a very different sense of time. Sugaring season especially teaches patience — you can't rush the sap flow, the weather, or the transformation from sap to syrup.

Learning to slow down, pay attention, and trust the process has been one of the most challenging and meaningful shifts for me.

When do you feel most connected to what you're making?

I feel most connected to what we're making when I get to share these products — and a taste of our forest and our craft — with our customers, family, and friends.

So much of the work happens quietly and behind the scenes over the course of a season, so there's something especially meaningful about the moment of connection when someone experiences the syrup at a farmers market or tasting, or reaches out to tell us how much our products mean to them and their family.

It's a reminder that our hard work eventually becomes part of someone else's table and daily rituals. That exchange never feels ordinary to me.

What's a moment in the process that still feels like magic to you?

The alchemy of sap becoming syrup.

Watching the first clear drops fall from a fresh tap hole, the sweet, sticky clouds of steam rising from the sugarhouse as we boil, and especially the joy of seeing our son taste the first syrup of the season — straight from the evaporator, poured over a bowl of snow.

That moment never gets old.

What do you hope people feel when they taste your syrup?

I hope people feel a distinct sense of place.

The sweetness of the Hudson Valley, and the character of the trees in our forest. Maple syrup carries the landscape it comes from, and I hope each bottle feels like a small connection to this region and the season it was made in.

How has this work changed your relationship to nature — and to yourself?

This work has completely changed both.

I was never a winter person growing up. Outside of snowboarding, it always felt like a season to endure rather than embrace, especially by the point in the year when you're tired of being indoors and ready for spring.

Sugaring shifted that for me. It gave winter a purpose and a rhythm — something to look forward to rather than push through.

It's also deepened my sense of responsibility as a steward of the land. Working so closely with the forest year-round has made conservation feel very personal. We're not just harvesting from the trees — we're caring for a system we depend on, making decisions we hope support its health for the long term.

In a world that increasingly prioritizes speed and convenience, there’s something quietly radical about work that cannot be rushed. Something healing about creating with your hands, in rhythm with nature, season after season.