A dab of molasses imparts a tawny flavor to cookies, cakes, sweet breads, as well as to a pot of dried peas or beans. Molasses thinned with pineapple or grapefruit juice is a fine basting for chicken, ham, roast turkey or pork.
A lemony salad dressing infused with a splash of molasses adds zest to slivers of cooked chicken, turkey or ham mixed with cherry tomatoes and lightly cooked zucchini or squash, a virtual meal in a bowl.
Years ago, quick breads infused with molasses were a family favorite that we enjoyed year-round. And to this day during the winter chill I keep a loaf or two on hand to share with a neighbor or friend who chances by in late afternoon for tea or coffee.
Molasses is as old as the country, dating back to the early European colonists who brought sugar cane from the Old World to what is now known as the West Indies. New England was this country's first recipient of sugar and molasses from the Caribbean, but as time passed, sugar cane growing prevailed in the Deep South, too -- my home turf, my visions still indelible.
During late fall when the sugar cane mill was running in our community, the locally grown sugar cane stalks were put into rollers and the juice was extracted and poured into large shallow pans set on stilts. The pans were then fired up.
As the juice thickened, the men -- including Daddy -- stirred the fiery bubbling pans, their faces laced with perspiration and expectation, a sweet, burnishing flavor now in the air, the juice taking on a deep tan color as the burning took over, the juice smoking and eventually thickening to a syrup.
In late evening we headed home, Daddy with a couple buckets of molasses in hand, our just reward, me thinking of the delectable dishes in wait.
Joyce White is the author of "Brown Sugar" and "Soul Food." Reach her at jwhitesoul@aol.com.
