Makin' Sorghum

I got up this morning thinking of sorghum makin' time.  Might have been inspired by the need for breakfast, but it brings back a flood of memories.

All the natural syrups are but a small fraction of the juice that initially was pressed to make them; but I'm getting ahead of myself, here.

Daddy grew cane.  Tall stalks, 10' – 12' high.  In the heat of August, the seed heads turned a rusty red, and it was time to prepare them for the juicing process.  That's where a host of kids came in handy.  Every one of us was in the cane field, machete in hand, stripping those stalks of leaves, right where they grew.  Each of us took a row, and we made a game of it—mom was so good at turning work into play!  We couldn't leave that row till all the stalks had been stripped of leaves.  Being small, I could only reach so high with that weapon, but was expected to do my part.  Made me feel so grown up, to be included.    Mom came along behind me, stripping higher.  She didn't dare go in front.  I was dangerous!

There was no breeze, down those rows.  How very hot it was!  And yet, when we got to the end of the row, and held our heads up, how welcome was any slight stirring of air on our hot faces!  Those times gave us an appreciation for the simple pleasures of life.  

When the stalks were stripped, then the cutting began.  My brother and older sisters, and mom and dad did this.  The stalk was cut at a diagonal, about 6-8" above ground, the seed head removed, and the stalk was then placed in the wagon, pulled by Old Nell, who waited patiently in that heat till the wagon was loaded and ready to be taken to the sorghum mill.

You may remember seeing the remains of the sorghum mill, just down the road to the east from the house.  When I last went by the old home place, vestiges of it were still standing.  As you came through the fence and into the compound, to your right was the cooking pit.  It was roughly 4' x 8'—the fire pit—with block walls 3' high to hold the huge sorghum pan (he called it a cradle, and it did vaguely resemble a cradle, with sloped ends, and low sides) that Dad had made—again about 4' x 8', to set on the walls, above the fire.

To your left was the mill itself.  It consisted of two huge rollers, beneath which sat a 55 gallon barrel.  Atop these rollers was bolted a long skinny tree, stripped bare of branches and leaves.  

Nell pulled the wagon into the mill area and stopped, leaving the wagon in place beside the rollers.  Dad then hitched her up to the end of that tree, and the juicing process began.

Why Nell, and not Rex?  I've wondered about that.  Rex was, for one thing, older.  At that time, Nell was in her late teens, early 20's.  Old Rex was 25.  He also had a mind of his own.  Nell was more placid, easier to control.  She'd walk the circle, proscribed by being hitched to the end of that tree, all day long, with brief stops to return the empty wagon to the cane field, where stalks were still being cut, and a second wagon was being loaded.  This went on all day long, till there was enough juice to fill the pan. 

This was one time that Mom didn't worry much about lunch (dinner, we called it).  She'd prepared some kind of meat the day before, and we had biscuit-and-meat sandwiches for the noon meal.

My brother, or one of my sisters, or Mom, fed the rollers from the wagon.  About 6 stalks at a time were fed into the rollers, which squeezed the juice out, and spit the flattened canes out the other side, where they were picked up and put into a pile, out of the way.  This was all a really sticky process!!  

Dad and Wayne took the full barrel over to the cooking cradle and poured it in.  When the cradle was full, the fire was lit, and all day long, all night long, and as long as it took, the cooking process went on.  The men (by this time, we had neighbor volunteers "drop in" to help) would take turns, sleeping and keeping the fire going, stirring the mixture occasionally (Daddy had made a large shovel-looking paddle to stir with), to keep it from burning on the bottom.  The cane juice would be reduced to almost ¼ of its original amount, by the time it became sorghum.  In other words, it took four barrels of juice to make one barrel of sorghum.

(I always wondered how these good neighbors knew when Daddy was "sorghuming".  Maybe he told them the Saturday before, when everybody in the community went to town.  Maybe they'd watched the cane ripen as they drove by on their way to town.  I never did find out.)

There were the wet years, when the cane had more juice.  It took longer to cook down, but there was more sorghum at the end.  It had a tad less flavor, too.  There were the dry years, when the rains didn't come.  The juice was less, but stronger in flavor.  

You know, plants have so many lessons in them!  Humans would do well to pay attention.  It's the tough times that force us to hone our skills, to step up to the plate and be better than our natures normally demand.  In our times of drought, we become purer, more refined.  Or, conversely, we can whine about it, play the victim, and seek welfare.   (I'm a fortunate mom that my children aren't of that mindset!!  How demeaning that attitude!)

When the sorghum was almost ready, Dad would hand each of us a stalk that had been cut diagonally on one end, and was about 12" long.  This was a skimming stalk, used to skim off the foam from the top of the sorghum.  It was a real treat to taste the foam!  Dad wanted no foam in his sorghum buckets!  As we skimmed, we ate that foam.  Yummy stuff!  (yes, today's moms would worry about the germs.  We weren't so careful; and were a whole lot healthier for it! :-)

To this day, I don't remember how the sorghum got from that huge cradle to the sorghum buckets. But, at some point, Nell was relieved of her monotony, the cane field was now a field of stobs, the fire was put out, and sorghum buckets were stored in the cellar for the coming winter.  Neighbors went home satiated by the sweetness of foam, carrying buckets full of sorghum.  

There was something satisfying about having food stored, to carry us through to the next season.  Thoroughly satisfying, too, were the yummy sorghum popcorn balls, or taffy, that Mom would have for snacks, the next time the family gathered around the radio for the Friday Night Frolic, or the Grand Ole' Opry programs (Grand Ole' Opry was on Saturday night).

Okay.  Enough for today.