Here is a picture of my friend down in Arkansas, checking out the sorghum patch. Taken a few years ago, this photo reminds me of the happy days when we would spend the weekend helping make sorghum molasses. She and her husband would grow the cane. And Andy and I and several others would gather at their home and pitch in...making 'lasses.
Sometimes we had good cane to work with...and sometimes not. It might be full of juice and splitting its green sides, just waiting to come out. Other times it was skinny and selfish, holding on to the sugary pulp until you had to beat it out with the heavy rollers that squeezed it in the mill.
At times we used a tractor to make the mill go around. One time we had the resident mules do the job.
Making sorghum is hard work. The juice needs to flow into the buckets at a good rate, leaving the residue of cane pieces on the filter cloth. You have to make sure the juice is as clear of trash as possible. Nothing worse than to have bits and pieces of cane floating around in that green liquid.
We use a stainless steel pan that fits snugly over the fire. It is a small pan, made especially for heating the green, raw sorghum juice and turning it into dark brown molasses. Many places I have visited use a pan with baffles that guide the juice from the raw start to the bubbling end over the constant heat of the wood fire. Workers use paddles to move the liquid along, making sure it doesn't stick along on the way.
We sit across the fire from each other, waving away the smoke as it goes up the chimney. Using skimmers, we pick up the foam and floating scum, flicking it off into the waste bucket near at hand. Taking turns, we watch closely, moving the logs in and out of the fire pit to regulate the temperature. We visit as we skim, talking to the kids nearby who are playing a game of tag and wondering when lunch will be served, because they are starving.
When the molasses turns that deep, rich brown, bubbling gently under the hot steam that rises above it, we take a thermometer and check the temperature. This is not an exact science. When is it done? Don't want it to burn, but we want to make sure that no green tinge or taste remains.
The moment of truth arrives when two strong men lift the pan off the fire and carry it to the table where it is placed among the jars that wait, clean and shining in the sun. Our friend carefully opens the spigot and fills jar after jar with golden brown goodness. We are there to help wipe the rims and cap it off.
Everyone stands around to see how it is done. Meanwhile, the mill keeps on working and the juice keeps on flowing. The pan is cleaned up and we start the process all over again after a bite to eat.
Sometimes people come to visit the party. They bring their fiddles and guitars and entertain the crowd with music, Sometimes someone gets out the jig board and dances along to a lively tune. We encourage them by clapping and yelling. The kids usually dance in the grass just to show they can do it too.
Back to work. The mill goes around and around, the juice is poured into the pan, we skim and talk and trade places when our backs get tired. As the evening shade starts to cover the yard, we make our last batch of the day. Cleaning up is not a problem because many hands make light work. Everyone pitches in. They grab a jar or two of sorghum, take the empty pots and skillets of what they brought to share for lunch, leaving us with something to eat for our supper.
As twilight falls the four of us that are left sit on the porch, a cool breeze blowing up the valley. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we sit in silence. It is a companionable silence, no need to chat. We are tired, bone tired. Feed the animals and get them ready for the night. Maybe bring the fiddle out again and play a tune or two there in the darkness of the new moon. Stars begin to wink above us. Bed beckons. And tomorrow...joy of joys...we get to make ' lasses again.
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