Way Back When I was growing up, the only dessert we ever had was syrup soppin'.

We poured thick syrup onto our dinner plate, stirred in some butter and tore off a piece of white bread to dip into the delicate mixture. Getting it to our mouth without dripping on our clothes was an art. No fancy gourmet dessert has ever tasted any better.

My sister liked to mix peanut butter into the syrup, but I liked the original butter recipe. I am not talking about molasses made from sorghum, but good old fashioned hard-to-find Blue Ribbon cane syrup.

Fall is the time of year when frosty mornings say, "Time to make syrup," which is pronounced SURP, not SEER-UP! Time to make it is when the cane is perfect, after a good rain to make it juicy and before that first hard freeze.

One syrup story is worth tellin' again and again, so here it goes. I was on the farm one fall when the cane was cut, hauled in the old farm wagon and piled next to the mill. Of course, we had already made a couple of visits to the cane patch to cut a few stalks to chew. Chewing that stringy pulp until there was no sugar left was the sweetest experience a child could know back then.

Photo courtesy of Harriet Outlaw

Uncle Sonny spent hours checking the mill and readying the cooking shed. When the big day finally came, everyone was up early. By daybreak, Uncle Sonny and Aunt Lucille had already milked the cows, and neighbors had come from miles around to help out so they could claim a can of that delectable treat at the end of the day. That was a good thing because syrup-making calls for many cooks in the "kitchen." I can see that mule walking around and around powering the grinding mill and remember feeding the stalks of cane into the jaws that squeezed that incredible nectar from the stalks. Most everyone took a swig from the jelly glass passed around to garner approval on that year's cane juice. The wooden kegs of juice were emptied into the kettle, a 10-foot-long rectangular cast iron tray placed over the brick firebox. The bubbling juice flowed down the tray through a maze of channels, constantly stirred with wooden paddles to keep it from scorching. As it started to boil harder, a foam began to form on the top, and the work became even more intense. The foam was skimmed off with an old pot with holes punched in the bottom and put in a bucket to be fed to the hogs.

The greatest skill of all was knowing when to "pull" the syrup. There was no thermometer telling the perfect time to drain the liquid. A few degrees can make a huge difference in whether the syrup will crystalize or not. The first pull was put in a mason jar and held up to the light. A beautiful amber color let the light shine through and made Uncle Sonny smile. The plug was pulled, and the first pull of syrup flowed into a 5-gallon bucket then poured into shiny silver cans and sealed. The workers all got a taste on top of the cathead biscuits Aunt Lucille brought hot from the kitchen. This went on for hours and hours until almost dark. When the final pull was made, a sense of well-being settled over the group, and this time the jelly glass passed around to the adults held a clear liquid poured from a crockery jug Uncle Sonny kept in the washhouse.

Every farm had pigs back then. The skimmings of the syrup-making helped fatten those pigs, and old folks said it made the bacon even tastier. As the buckets of foam were filled, it was my job to take them to the sty and pour them into the trough. However, somehow, one of those buckets got moved over to the side of the nearby shed, and we all forgot about it. Anyone knows cane skimmings are easy to ferment, like any extra sweet juice. A couple of days later while cleaning up the mill, we saw the bucket, which by that time smelled like a brewery. I lugged it to the pig trough and watched those swine swill it right up.

Photo courtesy of Harriet Outlaw

After a while, we heard a most unusual sound coming from the pig sty. There we saw the biggest boar with his head stuck through the fence, howling in a way I have never heard a hog bellow. It was almost musical in nature. We walked a little closer and noticed one sow stumbling through the muck. Every time she stood up, she staggered and fell right back into the mud. Another pig was lying on his back with his feet straight up in the air.

"Well, I'll be," Uncle Sonny said, "I do believe them pigs is drunk."

You've never seen anything until you've seen a sty full of drunk pigs.

Yep, this story needs to be told again. By the next generation, those pigs will be singing "Sweet Adeline" and playing a hand of poker — and those hams will inebriate everyone who tastes them! In fact, when you tell it, I am sure you can add a little to it. I have some cut cane on my porch right now. Come on by and set a spell. We'll chew some and tell stories.

This story, though updated here and originally titled "Them Pigs is Drunk," first ran in Outlaw's book "Tale Tellin' Southern Style," which published in 2024. It is available on Amazon.

Photo courtesy of Harriet Outlaw