Vermont, where flannel is formalwear, syrup is a sacred fluid, and “crowded” means seeing three cars at a four-way stop. It’s a place of peaceful mountains, polite independence, and a state population that’s 50% dairy cow, 50% Subaru driver. If these ten things feel oddly familiar, congrats—you’ve been in Vermont far too long, and you’ve probably had a heated opinion about real maple syrup at least once today.
You judge people not by their morals—but by their syrup.
If it’s not Grade A, Vermont-made, and stored in a mason jar, get it out of your pancakes.
You’ve used “mud season” as a legitimate excuse to cancel plans.
It’s the fifth season, and honestly, the most terrifying one.
You’ve been personally offended by the idea of maple-flavored anything.
If it didn’t come out of a tapped tree in someone’s backyard, it’s a fraud.
You’ve considered snow tires and a wood stove more important than health insurance.
Priorities. We don’t make the rules—the mountains do.
You’ve driven 30 miles for groceries and thought, “Not bad.”
And passed two covered bridges, three creemee stands, and one farmer giving you the Vermont nod.
You know a “creemee” isn’t a typo—and yes, it does taste better than regular soft serve.
Especially when it’s maple. Always maple.
You’ve seen someone skiing in jeans and thought, “Amateur.”
Real Vermonters know how to layer like tactical wizards.
You’ve ranted about out-of-staters during foliage season—while running an Airbnb.
We love them. We hate them. They keep the economy going. It’s complicated.
You’ve been to a farmer’s market in February and still left with kale, cheese, and maple cotton candy.
And you complimented someone’s hand-knit hat on the way out.
You consider “Live Free or Die” to be a cute suggestion—but Vermont’s already doing it, just with less yelling.
We don’t brag—we just homestead in silence.
If this list made you smile while chopping wood in a down jacket and drinking local cider from a reusable mug, then congratulations—you’re officially Vermont-tough. Whether you’re in the Green Mountains, the Northeast Kingdom, or somewhere in between a sugar shack and a co-op, you’ve embraced the slow, stubborn magic of the Green Mountain State. Just keep it local, keep it weird, and whatever you do—don’t buy your syrup at the grocery store.
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