As I stood over the sink tonight, and drizzled honey onto a piece of cornbread, I imagined it was sorghum.

Or as some might say, “MO-las-ses.”

Or as my family says, “sar-gum.”

(There’s a difference, though. You can read about it here.)

I envisioned the rich, deep amber syrup so completely I almost convinced my taste buds that the honey was something else. And on the verge of that fantasized tangy sweet taste, a memory moved slowly in the back of my mind, and with it, more memories came; all of them sticking together; all of them about sorghum.

Winter morning. Kitchen. I’m sitting on my mother’s lap. She’s wearing a soft red robe that’s keeping me warm. On the plate in front of us–a biscuit split open. On another plate–butter and sorghum. She takes fork and begins to mix the butter with the sorghum, turning it into a translucent spread. She covers one half of the biscuit with her mixture, and we eat together. Only mama eats her sorghum like this.

Year’s later. I’m grown. I have a husband. A family dinner with my parents. Cornbread. Sorghum, and the surprising revelation that my Iowa husband has never tasted sorghum. We fix him up. But he’s expecting honey and is not prepared for the bitter sweet, smokey tang that surprises his taste buds.

Breakfasts. Desserts. Biscuits. Cornbread…

Now, if I only had some sorghum.


Watch how it’s made:

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