Sorghum Molasses

It goes without saying that the isolated Cumberland Plateau has been populated by self-reliant and resourceful people.  The combined effect of few cash resources and limited transportation required they live on what the land could produce.    And I guess mountain-folk like sweets the same as anybody else but sugar cane just wasn’t going to grow in our short summers and thin soil.  Honey is always a good sweetener and beekeeping has been popular for generations.  But sorghum molasses have always been a staple as well.

I decided to share a few thoughts on this subject after talking with a reader from Michigan who said she’d heard about sorghum but didn’t quite know what it was. 

Now we always just call this molasses, however, today’s technical description of molasses is “a viscous by-product of refining sugarcane.”  That by-product tag may be why blackstrap molasses are so often used in animal feed.  So “Sorghum Molasses” tends to differentiate the source.

Well like I said, sugar cane requires more of a tropical climate than the mountain can offer.  Of course sugar beets grow in the colder mid-west climate but other than a few hunters hoping to bait deer I’ve never known of anyone on the Plateau growing sugar beets.  However sorghum cane is as old as the hills – or at least as old as the settlements in these hills. 

According to a Purdue (https://www.hort.purdue.edu/newcrop/afcm/forage.html) site, the plant is indigenous to Africa and was first introduced to the United States in the early 1600’s.  However, it wasn’t extensively grown until the mid-1800’s.  I wonder what “extensively” means there?  I’d hate to argue with the scholars at a respected university, but I’m thinking the Scots Irish that trekked into the mountains in the 1700’s brought this crop with them.  That seems logical if only because the crop and the tradition of making molasses was so entrenched among a people who lived in veritable isolation for over a century.  Now the question of where those immigrants got it is another question entirely. 

See, the British had been trading with the West Indies from the early 1600’s.  They immediately enjoyed all of the wonderful products from those exotic lands.  Even then, however, refined sugar was a luxury for the wealthy, as was the case when sugar was imported to the American colonies as well.  Early sugar production  was extremely labor intensive and therefore the finished product was very expensive. But that’s where research of products in the mountains kind of breaks down. 

With established trade routes from Europe, Africa and the Caribbean, sugar became much more widely available in Europe and I imagine in the oldest of American colonies as well.  The Appalachian peoples were much more isolated and they were not often included in those trade routes.  Even if the products were available, we’ve already established they had very limited cash resources therefore the average thirty-six pounds of sugar consumed by every European in 1850 would have simply been impossible to buy. 

I can hardly imagine the reception of a crop that could be grown and refined right at home into a sweetener for cookies and cakes or cooked down into candy.  With the shifting economy following World War II, that generation that grew up in the mountains in the 1920’s and 1930’s may have quickly grown tired of the molasses goodies.  But just a generation before taste buds weren’t nearly so choosy and that is no doubt why our tradition of making molasses held on for us to enjoy them today.

Many memories and stories from the pre-war years remain and maybe you can share some of your own.  A stir-off was a community event that attracted quite a crowd.  The cane would be crushed and the pommies piled high.  By day’s end when the cooking was well underway young folks always enjoyed chewing this ground cane for the last bit of sweetness it held. 

Molasses-making takes a long time, especially on the smallpans most communities had.  And I say community because there were only one or two cane mills and pans around and folks came from the whole area with their cane on wagons to cook down the molasses.  The owners of those mills and pans were happy to help their neighbors in exchange for a share of the molasses.

Can you even imagine the festive atmosphere as the long awaited harvest is finished and the sweet product of your labor can be enjoyed?

Tater Cakes

NOTE:  You probably got this in your inbox earlier in the week and I apologize - I simply got the date very wrong!

Blogs across the web will abound this week with recipes and suggestions for using Thanksgiving leftovers.  I doubt I’ll ever burden you with one of my recipes, but I did enjoy a leftover dish this week that always reminds me of home and Grandma.

Tater Cakes, also known as Potato Pancakes, Latkes or Botkin Pie are always a treat when I make them and I remember my Grandma Stepp frying them while I stood by the stove and practically ate them out of the skillet.  She always cooked bacon – or side meat – at the same time and now I wonder just why.  I suppose the bacon drippings made for more flavorful Tater Cakes and together it was a quick and easy meal. 

I wondered how widespread is this resourceful use of leftover potatoes so I did a quick internet search  and I also reached out to some friends around the world.  I was rewarded with an abundance of information.  From Germany to Ireland Potato Pancakes are loved.  Latkes are a traditional Jewish food for Hannukah – although my favorite Middle Eastern Jewish resource doesn’t remember them being among their traditional foods. 

I’ve mentioned before how I’m amazed that our mountain traditions can so often be traced way back to the original immigrants to the mountain and here again we see our Scots-Irish heritage reflected.  In Ireland, Boxty or Poundies are larger than I’m used to seeing, looking more like a real pancake. 

Scottish Tattie Scones look a lot more like our Tater Cakes although some are larger and cut into quarters before serving – and their use of “Tattie” for potatoes sure sounds a lot like our “Tater”, doesn’t it? Well their little cakes are soft rather than crispy and the texture seems dependent on making them while your potatoes are still warm.  Come to think of it, as an ancient recipe fried potato pancakes would keep better than leftover mashed potatoes so without access to refrigeration you might be in the habit of cooking them right away.  The scone recipes also have a lot of butter in them and I’m going to try that the next time I make my own Tater Cakes.

Tell me, do you remember eating Tater Cakes?

The Power of Smell

In the 1950’s and 1960’s movie producers experimented with incorporating scents into the theater experience.  Their project didn’t work too well but they had a great idea.  Our sense of smell is a powerful trigger to our memories.  I suppose that’s one of the key drivers of the multi-billion dollar scented candle industry.  Everyone loves for their home to smell like Grandma’s apple pie or fresh baked cookies.

Well there are scents that will forever remind me of my childhood home.  The unmistakable odors of cattle or sun-dried hay would hardly make popular candles but it will always take me back to hard work and happy days. 

This olfactory stimulus is one of the reasons I still regularly dry my laundry in the fresh outdoor air.  These days in our drought-stricken valley, we’re surrounded by wildfires (nearly 7,000 acres are burning across Tennessee) and the smoke is working its way into everything including my laundry.  Again, wood smoke wouldn’t sell very well but I grew up on sheets dried beneath the smoke from the wood stove and that’s what I’m reminded of while folding laundry today.

If you ever lived on or visited the mountain twenty years ago you too will identify with this memory.  It used to be that everybody heated their homes with wood.  This renewable energy source could be harvested from every hill and holler.  Hard winters often toppled the trees for you and chopping up stove-sized pieces would keep you warm for two days – the one when you chop as well as the one when you rest by the fire.  And since you’re gonna’ need a fire from November till April, every load of laundry gets a dose of the smoke.

You won’t ever find towels stiffened by cold winter winds and infused with wood smokein a luxury motel where they think you’ll be so impressed with their linens you may buy a set for your house.  But if you’ve ever had the pleasure of wintering on the mountain, I imagine you can appreciate them.

Janavee Stepp Sisco

This week my family lost another precious memory-keeper.  Aunt Janavee was the last of my Grandpa Stepp’s siblings and somehow despite seeing her so seldom, so long as she lived there was a link to Grandpa and to all of my great-aunts and uncles that surrounded my childhood.  Ironically, Daddy and I were talking about her just last week and I had tried to reach out to one of her sons to check on her.  I had just been saying I really need to go see her.

If you’ve been visiting the blog for a while, you’ll remember my new year’s resolution a couple of years ago was to visit.  Well I’ve been pretty successful at keeping that resolution, but there are just so many folks to visit that I don’t seem to be able to make much headway on my running list.  Still, every moment I get to spend with an aging neighbor or relative is a win in my mind because every visit yields new stories or reminders and details to stories I’ve always heard. 

Janavee, her mother Emma Stepp, nieces Roberta and Janiene holding her son Sheldon

This whole weekly blog is dedicated to preserving these memories of our mountain people.  Losing an octogenarian strengthens my resolve to record their stories, to tell them to my children and my children’s children.

I’m always asking you faithful readers to share your thoughts on the blogs.  Today I want to ask you to share your stories.  Please click on “comments” below and share a memory you have from your own childhood or from time with your grandparents.  Maybe you’d like to share a story your grandparents told you about their own childhood.

So let me share a little story from one of Janavee’s childhood friends, Dimple Norris Young (in her own words as nearly as I can transcribe them).

We’s talkin’ about the time they’s gonna give us shots for Small Pox.
They said it was goin’ to be Small Pox shots.
I remember Janavee found out what it was going to be and she slid out some way or another and she just flew down the road.
She said, I’m not stayin’ and let him poke me with that thing.
I’ve always wondered if she made it home or if somebody went and got her.

I remember not too many years ago, we went to church and somebody brought us part of the way home.  We had to walk over there by Conard’s [Atkinson] and all there.  And a dog got after me and her and like to scared us half to death.  We jumped bean poles and I don’t know what all through the yard there down to Uncle Millard’s before we ever got down there we just about tore ourselves up gettin’ away from that dog and it probably wouldn’t bite nothin’. 

Janavee with Great-Grandson Nathaniel and Grandson Kevin

Civil War Veterans

War is ugly.  Yet from our earliest accounts of history, mankind has “beat[en] plowshares into swords” (Joel 3:10) and faced down enemies.  Even today we have men and women marching under the stars and stripes on foreign soil in an attempt to preserve our way of life.  They deserve our prayers and a prominent place in our hearts.

Today is the 241st anniversary of the inception of the United States Marine Corps.  Tomorrow is the day America has set aside to honor veterans in every branch of service.  It seems a fitting time to share a recent research experience.

I’ve been doing some family-tree research and came upon a grave-site picture that inexplicably moved me to tears.  What is it about those simple white stones that bring on so much emotion?    I suppose it’s the suffering they represent. 

If you notice the death date on the picture, this man did not die in battle, but lived many years afterward, raised a family and hopefully enjoyed peace and happiness.  The survivors of America’s War between the States may have suffered more than those who fell quickly on the battlefield.  The state of medicine at the time meant that many war wounds would never really heal.  Musket balls were often carried inside limbs for a lifetime.  Without the aid of antibiotics, infections festered sometimes for years - not to mention the emotional scars of the close combat. 

Then there was Reconstruction.  Another document I’ve recently run upon records of Confederates’ oath of allegiance.  The header on this book reads, “An act to provide for the more efficient government of the rebel States’.  An article published by James R. Baker, jr. on Rootsweb explains that there was no standardized oath and that they were administered for varied purposes.  At least one ingenious Confederate commander prevailed upon his Union prisoners to pledge never to take up arms against the Confederacy.   The ledger records the citizen’s length of time in the state and everyone says 12 months so it appears that was the requirement before you would be permitted to vote.

I also found record of a young man, Preston Stepp, who died in May 1864 as a prisoner at the infamous Andersonville camp.  He died of dysentery after being captured at Rogersville, Tennessee in November 1863 - an utterly unromantic victim of one of the Confederacy’s greatest enemies.  I believe the 1850 census records a ten year old Preston living in Fentress County, Tennessee with his parents and three siblings.   I say “believe” because neither the enlistment nor prison record give any detail beyond the name and regiment.  It’s as though the war departments either had no idea there would be casualties or no intention of notifying the next of kin.  For research purposes, it seems nearly impossible to know if the record refers to your particular ancestor.  In fact, this soldier may have been the twenty year old son or even the fifty year old father who bore the same name.

Preston’s brother William appears to have enlisted with him in Tennessee’s 2nd Infantry Regiment.  As I looked at the picture of the nearly thirteen thousand headstones marking Civil War graves in Andersonville National Cemetery, I can’t help but wonder what young William went through in the weeks and months after his brother’s capture. 

When would William have learned his brother’s fate?  Would he have finished his tour of duty wondering whether Preston lived?  Did he return home to Fentress County half expecting him to come wandering home one day? 

The 1880 census shows William did return to Fentress County where he married and raised a family of his own, farming as his father had done.  Do you suppose he was ever even able to visit the Andersonville gravesite?  I doubt it as the three hundred eighty miles surely represented the journey of a lifetime.  Perhaps he felt he’d seen enough of Georgia during the war years.  Likely there would not have even been a tombstone erected in William’s day. 

As I’ve said so many times, I’m left with more questions than answers.  But this research causes me to question not just the past but the present as well.  The Bible tells us there will be wars and rumors of wars until the final days when at Armageddon good ultimately defeats evil.  And we certainly can’t bow to the forces of evil in the name of peace.  Still, it seems like anyone contemplating starting a new conflict ought to have make that decision in the center of one of our national cemeteries.