I poured the finished syrup into jars, holding them up and just admiring the color—dark amber, almost glowing. There’s something deeply satisfying about seeing a finished product that came from nothing more than time, attention, and a walk in the woods.
What surprised me most wasn’t just the taste. It was how the whole experience felt.
Making shagbark hickory syrup isn’t fast. It doesn’t fit into a rushed day. It asks you to slow down, to notice, to wait. In a world where everything is instant, that alone feels rebellious.
And maybe that’s why it tastes so good.
Because every step of it carries intention. From choosing the bark, to letting it simmer, to watching it transform. You’re not just making syrup—you’re participating in something older than recipes and instructions. Something passed along quietly, often overlooked.
When I shared the jars with a smile, I felt proud—not in a loud, chest-puffing way, but in a grounded, satisfied way. The kind of pride that comes from doing something real.
So yeah. Toot, toot.
Not because I made syrup. But because I took the time to try something different. Because I trusted curiosity. Because I let myself be surprised.
And if you’re the kind of person who loves flavors that tell a story—who likes food that feels connected to a place and a moment—this is one of those things that sticks with you.
You don’t forget the first time you taste something like this.
It doesn’t just sit on your tongue. It settles somewhere deeper. Somewhere warm.
Sometimes the best things aren’t hiding in stores or trends or labels. Sometimes they’re just out there, clinging loosely to a tree, waiting for someone curious enough to stop, look, and say, Why not?
