SWEET, SYRUPY GOODNESS A culinary adventure following sorghum from field to biscuits Story and photos by Wendy Perry
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carolinacountry.com/extras Check out the sorghum-syrup-molassesmaking process for yourself! Mr. Doug readies loaded sorghum for processing by trimming the seed heads, which are sometimes fed to his cattle.
efore I set out on my latest culinary adventure, this time to the heights of our Blue Ridge Mountains, I needed to understand: Is what I’ve always called “molasses” truly that? Or was it just syrup some of us grew up calling molasses? One thing was (and remains) clear: I love it. My earliest recollections of this tasty elixir was the jar, always there, on my grandma’s kitchen work table, beside a plate of soft butter and biscuits she’d made that morning. A great uncle had a “molasses cook’n” each fall when I was growing up, and Daddy would always take me there. As a grownup, with never-ending curiosity for learning about and documenting “old-timey” food preparation methods, I road-tripped out to Western North Carolina to spend a day with one of the few NC farmers — Mr. Doug Harrell — still making sorghum syrup, or what he calls molasses syrup (and what I’ll just call the good stuff), the old way. I had a feeling I’d be putting all of my senses to work on this trip.
OUT IN THE FIELD
Meandering my way down winding back roads of Mitchell County as the sun was peeping through the trees, I was feeling a bit giddy, eager for the day ahead. When I arrived at Harrell Hill Farms on a cooking day last September, I could see the community spirit there at the molasses cookhouse, where family and friends were gathered. Mr. Doug, whose kind, gentle spirit and eagerness to share were immediately apparent on a prior phone call, moseyed over to greet me. He gave me a hug, as if we were longtime friends, this gentleman in his well-broke-in overalls, as comfortable as a second skin. “Hop in the truck, Wendy,” he exclaimed. “Let’s go to the field!” The sun was just up, and no time to waste. Somehow, our ride — a tattered old truck — got us through a few mud pits along the path, remnants of Hurricane Laura that had skimmed through a few days prior and briefly delayed harvest. As we came out from the wooded trail into an open field, we were met by a few of his 21 grandchildren, neighborhood youth and some 4-Hers, there to swoop up armfuls of the tall golden-green sorghum. Mr. Doug hopped on his tractor and quickly mowed down rows of stalks, which they loaded into the truck bed. I took a deep breath of the pure, brisk mountain air, listening to the quiet crunch underfoot of the freshly mown sorghum as it was gathered.
Back at the cook shed, Lil’ Bit feeds the mill at just the right pace to crush juice from the stalks of freshly cut sorghum. 16 | September 2021
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