Syrup the Hard Way

Syrup the Hard Way(Phil Penne) I don’t remember what month it was, or even the year. I remember only that it was a Saturday, and a time of the year when Crystal River was cool at night, and bearable during the day.
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Brothers Dale and Phil, and myself, referred to as “Other Phil”, since I was not a family member, went into the cane field early in the morning. It was early enough that the crickets were still symphonizing, but sufficiently late that the first hints of perspiration to be were already in the air. Armed with broad-bladed cane knives we started the trek down our appointed rows, bending down, whacking at the cane stalks and tossing them into the wheel barrow that was being kept close at hand by James, the younger brother. After the first row, kerchiefs were produced from pockets, initially to wipe brows, then to serve as bandannas to keep the stinging salt of sweat out of our eyes.
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At that point I had already lived in Florida a good many years, but was new to cutting cane. I wasn't prepared for the sticky cane juice that coats every inch of your clothing, nor the cuts received from the edges of the dry leaves. I was also not prepared for the numerous insects that were there to gorge themselves on the succulent fluid, the rats that are in the field to feast on the insects, or the snakes that frequent the field in order to feed on the rats. The longer I worked in the field, the closer I felt to the bottom of the food chain.
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It was our good fortune that the cane field was small. It was owned by Phil and Dale’s granny, and who knows how many family members before her. Within an hour our work was complete and the stalks were piled up near the cane press, ready for the next stage of the operation.
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The cane press was an ancient cast iron device which had served the needs of the Chancey family for a forgotten number of decades. If memory serves it was manufactured by somebody-or-other’s plow works, but I couldn't swear to it. The machine was Old South; it was mounted on a pair of grayed pine pillars easily a foot in diameter each; at the top there was a stout bracket to which the long wood beam was attached. At the far end of the beam was the hardware that connected the cane press to its power source, generally a mule, preferably one with lop ears and an endearing name like “Nell” or “Jess”. In our case the mule was sick, so a faded red Chevy “pick ‘em up” truck of indeterminate vintage was used to provide the power. As the family patriarch steered the path customarily trod by the mule we fed the cane stalks into the maw of the mechanism, watching the translucent green juice run out the bottom, where it was collected in a galvanized bucket. The crushed stalks – “pummies”, in the vernacular of cane people - that the heavy iron rollers spat out on the other side of the press were gathered by James and taken off to be discarded on some corner of the property. Sometimes curious cattle would gnaw on the sweet stalks; most generally the pummies would just rot away with the passage of time.
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A few quick observations about the actual pressing of the cane: First and foremost, after feeding stalks into the machine for a short time you start to feel like one of those toy birds you buy in novelty stores – you know, the ones that bob up and down, pretending to “drink” from the glass of water placed in front of them. As the beam makes its innumerable orbits around the center of its universe, you are roughly in the position of the planet Mercury; the only difference is that rather than the period of orbit being eighty-eight days it’s about fifteen seconds. Every time the beam comes around, you have the choice of either ducking, or being blindsided by a six by six chunk of pine beam. Believe me, after getting clobbered a few times, you get the tempo down pat.
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Secondly, being of an ancient construct, the can press lacked the myriad safety features common to today’s equipment. It had two formidable iron rollers through which the cane was fed. The method for keeping your fingers from being crushed into pulp was simple – you didn't put them into the machine. Period. If you did, by the time they stopped either the mule or the truck, you’d be up to your elbow. It’s amazing what an effective teacher the very thought of excruciating pain can be.
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Lastly, I was witness to an event I hadn't anticipated. As we worked we were joined in our labors by any number of flies, bees and whatever other critters had a taste for cane juice. Some landed on us, others buzzed in confusion nearby, and still others found their way to the source of the aroma, the cane stalks. In the simple mind of an insect, landing directly on the food source probably seemed like a good idea. However, being ignorant of the ways of machinery and lacking in the most rudimentary degree of self preservation, they would ride the cane stalks right into the heart of the press, where they would meet their multi-legged Maker. Although you couldn't see any difference in the color or volume of juice going into the bucket, you knew that at least a small portion of it was the same stuff that ends up sticking to the wall after you swat a bug.
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As we freed the juice from its fibrous confines, James and sister Amelia were dumping batch after batch into a large cauldron, the same cauldron and accompanying furnace that had been used for processing cane juice since before the War of Northern Aggression. As the pressing came to a close a fast, hot fire of fat wood was kindled in the furnace. At this point in time our labors had come to a close: the press had been hosed down, the pummies had all been trucked out to the field, and enough gallon jugs to hold the expected volume of syrup were waiting at the ready. We sat around the perimeter of the cauldron, a circular wall of lime rock held together with tabby cement, on whatever milk crate or five gallon bucket was handy, swapping stories about spooky sounds in the night and the granddaddy bucketmouth that got away. After a time, the juice began to bubble, then come at last to a full-on boil. As it boiled, a gray foam peppered with unidentifiable bits of debris formed over the surface, where it was removed with a tin skimmer that looked for all the world like half of an old bed warmer. Eventually enough foam was skimmed away that we were able to see the contents below, a viscous, bubbling broth that has lost it pale green color, and was slowly becoming a more appetizing shade of amber.
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Mr. Chancey – his first name escapes me with the passage of time – produced a candy thermometer he used to check the temperature of the concoction. The process of boil, skim, measure was repeated until there was no waste left to remove and the thickened syrup had reached a temperature just north of the boiling point of water. The fire was then dragged out of the furnace on a removable tray and the slow cooling process began, an important step to keep the glass jugs from breaking when filled with the beyond-boiling liquid. Dippers were used to fill jugs with golden syrup that, while still hot to the touch, had cooled sufficiently to bottle.
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I don’t recall what we had for dinner that night; I was exhausted from the day I had put in and could have eaten a pair of gum boots with gravy and been none the wiser. I remember only showering, falling into bed in the bunkhouse and, after my eyes adjusted to the darkness, watching the tiny embers of rat eyes glowing at me from the rafters in the glints of moonlight.
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What I do remember is breakfast the next morning, an unforgettable Florida breakfast if ever there was one. I dragged myself out of bed at 8:00, amazed that I had awakened so early after the previous day’s work. I was met with the smell of home cooking mingled with that of percolating coffee, and the head-wagging and tongue-clucking of an eighty-something year old woman who had woke with the sun and was busy preparing the morning meal.
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A hearty Florida breakfast is not for the faint of heart. Copious helpings of pancakes – with cane syrup, naturally – bacon, home fries, perfectly seasoned home made turtle meat sausage (yes, you heard right, and it’s to die for) and biscuits. We’re not talking biscuits out of one of those containers you unwrap and whack on the edge of the counter to open; granny made her biscuits the way her mama had taught her: She’d take a crockery bowl containing her dry fixins off the window sill over the sink and remove the towel that covered it. She would then put her liquid ingredients in the center of the mix, glop it around with her fingers (“hands’r clean, don’t need no mixin’ spoon”), pull out a perfect lump of dough, then replace the towel and set the bowl back on the sill. Roll it out, cut out the biscuits with a drinking glass, toss it in the oven, and in a few minutes you've got butter and honey’s best friend in the world. Desert after breakfast consisted of cane syrup cookies. If you've never had them, find a recipe. They’re so good, they've got to be illegal in the better part of the continental U.S.
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I visited for a time after breakfast, then made my goodbyes and climbed on the Honda to head back to St. Pete. Granny gave me a small paper sack of cookies to go – I think it was because I never failed to refer to her as “ma’am”, something upon which a true lady of the South insists.
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Nowadays on those occasions I pass by a stand of sugar cane, I still feel a twinge in the muscles of my lower back and I look at my hands, half expecting to see blisters from wielding the cane knife. I also think back to those halcyon days, and one of the happiest events of my life.