Cane syrup never achieved the national fame and favor of maple syrup. The flavor is stronger, the pour is slower, and the supply is limited. But in Alabama, those who have acquired a taste for cane will accept no other topping on their breakfast biscuits . . . or their vegetables and meat. Cane syrup is more than a food, however; it is the result of a process that has changed little over time—the syrup boils of today are a direct link to those of 150 years ago. But syrup production has evolved as well. Using pure sugarcane syrup or molasses as a key ingredient, three Alabama companies developed unique blends to suit changing tastes: Golden Eagle, Alaga, and Yellow Label. Twentieth-century Alabamians continued an old tradition in a new form. Cane syrup in the culture of Alabama is as tenacious as the syrup that glues the lid to the bottle and forces impatient biscuit eaters to fetch the pliers.

A philosopher has given it as his opinion, that whoever can make two ears of corn . . . to grow upon a spot of ground . . . will deserve better of mankind . . . than a whole race of politicians put together. With how much more force does that apply to you who are engaged in fostering and promoting the growth of the most luscious of all nature’s products. Whether munched by the teeth of the child, or yielding its juices through the mill for scientific treatment, what other plant can rival its sweetness? Who, after dwelling on the heights where cane sugar reigns, can descend contentedly to the lower levels where beet root needs to be labeled as sugar to entitle it to recognition?

One expert identified almost 1,700 varieties of the sugarcane worldwide; different types are better suited for different uses: chewing, sugar, syrup. Syrup cane, for instance, ripens quickly, produces a large amount of juice, and resists disease and cold weather well. Good syrup cane does not necessarily yield high quality sugar, but the basic characteristics of the plant are the same, regardless of variety.

A tall, cylindrical grass that thrives in tropical climates, sugarcane stalks are tough rind on the outside, sugary pith on the inside. In Alabama, stalks grow from six to eight feet tall, and the leaves that sprout from nodes down the length of the plant can reach five feet. To plant the crop, farmers place sections of cane horizontally in furrows, slightly overlapping the ends of the stems. New stalks and root systems develop from the nodes in the buried sections. At harvest time, cane is cut level with the ground, and the remnants of the crop ("stubble") are covered with dirt and "fodder" to protect it from freezing. A planting can last several years if properly cared for after reaping.

Sugarcane is not a native Alabama crop. Like watermelons, sweet potatoes, and other regional favorites, it is an honorary "Southern" specialty. Its ancient origins are uncertain and have long been a subject of debate; some sources claim New Guinea as the starting point for cane dispersal, and others suggest southern Asia. Regardless of the theory, sugarcane’s route to the United States is traceable from India. The Arabs took Indian cane with them to Spain, and sugar production thrived in southern Europe for about four hundred years. Columbus then carried the crop to Hispaniola on his return trip to the New World in 1493. From the Caribbean it steadily spread throughout Central and South America. In 1751 Jesuit priests introduced sugarcane to Louisiana. Colonists experimented with the plant in Florida, Georgia, and South Carolina in the late eighteenth century, and these efforts continued throughout the Southeast in the following decades.

Those who devoted substantial acreage to sugarcane did so in the hope of striking white gold: sugar was a lucrative industry, but it required enormous amounts of cane. Few areas of the United States met the physical demands of the crop. Only Louisiana, Florida, Texas, and Hawaii had the best climate and soil for large-scale production, but farmers in most southeastern states attempted. For example, several counties in Alabama tried cane during a cotton slump in the 1840s. While they produced moderate sums of sugar, they could not compete with the plantations of Louisiana. Alabama and most of her neighbors found no place in the international sugar trade. But these states did not abandon the crop altogether; rather they found another use for the crop: syrup.

Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia—the "sugarcane-syrup belt"—produce 90 percent of the country’s cane syrup. Farmers in these areas plant varieties of cane that grow more quickly and resist cold better than those grown for sugar production. Even so, it never developed into a major industry in these regions. Though some farmers produced barrels of syrup for wholesale, most made only enough to feed their families and earn a little extra money in local markets. Success in the open market would have required extensive manufacturing of a standardized product. The USDA issued several bulletins to teach farmers how to "properly" make their syrup, but overall production decreased steadily throughout the twentieth century.

The natural usage of a smokehouse is to smoke and store meat, but meat is not smoked here: this is a storage house. Mainly, there are a couple of dozen tin cans here, of many differing sizes and former uses, now holding sorghum . . .

Sweet sorghum probably originated in Africa and from there spread to Asia and Europe. At one time it had potential as an alternate source of sugar, but difficult production and insufficient yields convinced producers to abandon the experiments. The crop arrived in the United States in the 1850s, where successful syrup production began in the Midwest and moved southward. Today Alabama is one of the eight states that together put out 90 percent of the nation’s sweet sorghum, sort of a "soggum" circle to complement the "sugarcane belt."

Although sorghum can grow anywhere in Alabama, the majority of the state’s syrup producers choose sugarcane; sorghum only takes the lead where wintertime lows threaten cane stubble. In Tuscaloosa County alone, the extension agent reported in the 1930s that farmers planted 75 percent more cane, and only a sixth of the families surveyed preferred sorghum syrup; most soggum went to black field hands, as if it were an inferior product and not worthy to douse the biscuits of most white families.

Molasses is a much closer cousin of cane syrup than sorghum. Essentially molasses is cane syrup with part of the sugar removed—a byproduct of the sugar industry. Therefore, states that do not grow cane for sugar do not produce molasses. The inhabitants of these areas have greater access to locally produced syrup than the "imported" sweet stuff. Still "[r]ural Southerners almost always refer to sirup as molasses."

Back home I was used to fried chicken and collard greens and butter beans and corn bread and other comforting things. But these New Orleans restaurants! I will never forget my first oyster, it was like a bad dream sliding down my throat; decades passed before I swallowed another. As for all that spicy Creole cookery—just to think of it gave me heartburn. No sir, I hankered after biscuits right from the stove and milk fresh from the cows and homemade molasses straight from the bucket.

Cane syrup was an important component in the rural diet, a relatively inexpensive source of flavor and fuel. "Cheap and tasty" was the key. The three essential ingredients for the country tabletop were the "three Ms: meat, meal, and molasses." Buttered biscuits drowned in syrup ("Asking about the size of a serving always brought laughter") was a common breakfast dish; work was hard, days began early, and lunch was a long time away. That morning meal had to last.

But early twentieth-century physicians saw a correlation between the poor Southern diet and pellagra, the disease that regularly afflicted the rural populace. In response, physicians promoted a more balanced diet that would provide all the necessary vitamins and minerals. The Extension Service agents set out with demonstrations and pamphlets, working to convince their clientele put the lid back on the syrup can and reach for a carrot instead.

Cane syrup was not completely discouraged, however. So long as it did not make up the base of the food pyramid, country folks could keep their sweet. In fact, moderate amounts actually benefited consumers. The syrup was full of calcium, copper, and iron, and it helped combat anemia. Despite its high sugar content (quite an understatement), it was so rich in minerals that it did more to build up teeth than to decay them. Mothers even added syrup to baby bottles to increase the calcium in the milk. Rural families needed to add variety to their eating habits, but eliminate cane syrup altogether? Never—they could not afford to do away with a product that promised to do so much: "Makes children more alert in school . . . adults industrious at work . . . for any age person, it’s the perfect ‘starter.’ Make cane syrup a part of your table setting; it’ll soon get to be your most pleasant and nutritious eating habit."

Fall of the year, first fall he was there, Captain Cook put me to makin syrup. I stood—and a pan was in my possession on a furnace to boil down the cane. I’d produced many a gallon of sorghum syrup when I was raisin my children—growed sugar cane too. Made barrels of syrup, that old native sugar cane syrup, pure syrup; I was born and raised up eatin syrup.

Syrup making was a relatively simple process. It required special knowledge and equipment, but the basics were plain: cut the cane, extract the juice, boil the juice, bake the biscuits, sop in syrup, and eat. Syrup days took place in the fall of the year; the longer the cane grew, the sweeter it became, but it was best to gather it before the first freeze. Farmers with large cane crops might have invested in mechanical cutters, but most syrup producers ran small operations and could not afford such an expense. Instead they took to the fields with strippers and cane knives. The harvest was the most strenuous step in the process. Cane leaves could cut careless fingers like a razor blade, and sharpened harvesting tools were even more dangerous. Reapers dealt with each piece of cane individually, first stripping the leaves and then cutting the stalks even with the dirt.

Sugarcane began to break down soon after it was cut, so the next step in the process took place a day or so after the harvest. The cane mill was one of the most distinguishable features at a syrup operation. The mill usually sat on wooden base in a flat, open space surrounded by a worn circular path. A team of mules (and in more recent times, a tractor or even a lawnmower) attached to the long wooden beam on top of the mill and powered it, turning the rollers in the machine as a person fed stalks through the side. This job could be rather dangerous; a feeder who succumbed to the monotony of the task might have forgotten the giant log that was circling his or her head. But bruised head or not, the gears kept turning, crushing the cane and removing the juice.

After straining the cane juice to remove as many impurities as possible, the cooking began. Boiling the juice during this step evaporated much of the water: the juice was 83 percent water and the syrup cooked down to about 30 percent. One gallon of syrup required six to ten gallons of juice, depending on the maker. Producers could choose a kettle or an evaporator pan for this task. Kettles were the older, slower method. Sixty or eighty-gallon kettles were filled with juice and after about four hours of watching and skimming, the syrup was ready. In the shallow, rectangular evaporators, water evaporated as the juice flowed slowly down the pan (with skimmers removing impurities along the way). The skilled eye of the cook knew when to add more juice to the pan, thus moving the heated liquid farther down. By the time it reached the end, it had the consistency of syrup. This technique could also be time-consuming, however; a batch would last as long as the mill kept grinding the juice.

This type of syrup making was a rural activity with a rural flavor. But Alabama has turned many of her cotton, corn, and cane fields into suburbs and shopping centers. Generations have grown up eating processed tree sap on their pancakes; they consider jelly, rather than cane syrup, the natural condiment for biscuits. But even on grocery store shelves stocked with twenty brands of imitation maple, cane syrup continues to make an appearance in modified form. Several blends use cane as a key ingredient, and three of these—Golden Eagle, Alaga, and Yellow Label—are Alabama classics.

The developers of these brands probably grew up on real syrup and obviously considered it worth including in their products. But they recognized a growing trend among consumers. People were leaving the country with its simple tastes and limited selection and were discovering the convenience and variety of the city’s manufactured goods. They were far less likely to search for an independent producer of cane syrup if they could find an appropriate substitute in the same store they bought their other food. Alabama’s twentieth-century syrup companies did what small-scale cane growers never could: they turned out large quantities of a standardized product and took it directly to the customers.

Victor S. Patterson, Sr. had a sweet tooth and a sensitive stomach, an unpleasant combination when the biscuits and sorghum can were on the table—syrups can be a bit harsh on the digestive system. Never a fan of bare biscuits, Mr. Patterson set out to develop a syrup mild enough for him to eat. He and his wife turned their kitchen into a laboratory, and in the evenings after work (both had full-time jobs) they searched for the perfect formula. Finally they found the right blend of corn syrup, fructose, cane molasses, and honey, and Golden Eagle, the "Pride of Alabama," was born.

That was 1928; times were already hard in Alabama, but they got worse soon after. Golden Eagle’s success in the midst of such economic hardship attested the determination and resourcefulness of the Pattersons. They put up a shed in their back yard to serve as a factory, and Mr. Patterson would drive their "little blue truck with the yellow stripe" to Birmingham to pick up the ingredients. Then he, and later his son, would personally deliver the product, stacking cans of syrup on their arms to carry them inside the stores. Golden Eagle’s first account in Birmingham was at the store of Mr. Joe Bruno, the Mr. Joe Bruno—two "prides of Alabama" helped one another grow.

In 1944 the company moved to a building in downtown Fayette and eventually outfitted it with automatic equipment. Thanks to Mr. Patterson’s sales efforts, Golden Eagle had a market as far away as California. And thanks to Joe Rumore, a beloved Birmingham disc-jockey on the 50,000 watt WVOK, the entire state knew about Fayette, Alabama, "Syrup City." He promoted the product all through the day; the original jingle ("Golden Eagle Table Syrup, the Pride of Alabam’") was actually recorded in his garage. Joe’s brother Duke was also a committed Golden Eagle DJ. He used to tell his listeners that if they saw him driving around town and honked, he would pull over and give them some syrup. He kept his truck well-stocked with the tiny sample jars.

The business was successful and secure, and the entire family was involved—the parents, their children, Victor, Jr. and Jeanie, and Jeanie’s husband Herbert Newell. When Mr. Patterson died unexpectedly in 1960, Mrs. Patterson maintained ownership for several years until the children took over. They ran Golden Eagle until 1986 when, because of Vic Jr.’s poor health, they reluctantly sold it. Mrs. Newell was so concerned about the company’s future that she hoarded half-gallon jars of syrup under her bed—a lifetime supply in case the golden eagle ceased to fly.

The company struggled for the next sixteen years until brothers-in-law Trent Mobley and Vic Herren purchased (or "rescued," as Mrs. Newell would say) it in 2002. One reason Trent Mobley invested in the business was his desire to "see at least part of our history preserved." Golden Eagle was a part of Fayette’s past and a part of his past, and he is now committed to preserving the quality the Pattersons established when that first batch of syrup came off their kitchen stove. After all, they chose the name because they knew their product "was beautiful and that it was of high quality and that the golden eagle flies higher than any other bird."

Today Golden Eagle has four employees, one delivery truck, and the same address as sixty years ago. They offer a variety of products: customers can purchase Golden Eagle Syrup in 15-ounce, 30-ounce, or 40-ounce jars. Years ago, the company tried a pancake and waffle syrup, but it was nothing special and could not compete with the other brands. But nobody made anything like Golden Eagle. The experimenters learned their lesson.

The process has not changed much over the years, though the automatic equipment has made the "runs" much cleaner and more efficient. First the ingredients are combined in the copper cookers and then the blended syrup cools some before bottling. Jars travel down a conveyor belt to the filler, the machine that (as the name indicates) fills the jars. The jars receive lids and labels from capping and labeling machines, and an employee waits at the end of the line to box the finished product. These boxes travel to Mississippi, Georgia, Tennessee, Florida, and, of course, various counties in Alabama. The number of "runs" per week depends on the time of year. Like cane syrup, this is somewhat seasonal. The plant operates every day during the winter but only two or three times a week during the warmer months.

As Stacy Williams read the letter, he could hear the death knell for his newest business venture. He had spent months cooking, distributing and advertising Everybody’s Syrup, but the words of this Pittsburgh attorney called production to a halt. The name "Everybody’s Syrup," the lawyer wrote, was already trademarked; Mr. Williams would have to call his product something else.

In March 2003, the owners of Montgomery’s new minor-league baseball team started a "Name the Team" contest. When they revealed the winner, some laughed and many complained, but the people at Whitfield Foods smacked their foreheads and said, "Why did not we come up with that name ourselves?" Whitfield, the city’s premier syrup manufacturer recognized the perfect advertising opportunity the Montgomery "Biscuits" presented. Everyone knew that "syrup and biscuits naturally went together." Alaga is now the official syrup at the ballgames; though fans can buy the traditional hotdogs and peanuts, they can also stop by the concession carts where there are hot biscuits and large pumps of Alaga and Yellow Label.

Despite similarities, Whitfield Foods, Inc. is a complete contrast to Golden Eagle—a small company in a small building in a small town. Both are Alabama-based, family-owned syrup producers, and the products and processes are very similar. But Whitfield has a different and much larger scope. It is a business first, and always has been. Nostalgia and tradition are not always practical for larger companies.

Louis Broughton Whitfield, Sr. got involved in grocery distribution in his early twenties. Soon he became a partner in the Montgomery-based grocery brokerage, the W. F. Vandiver Company. This association brought him more than a title and a comfortable income: in 1893 he married Willie Vandiver. It was a love match but also a business partnership, as the name of their commercial venture reflected. They started the Alabama-Georgia Syrup Company in 1906, Alabama for her home state, Georgia for his. This was also the source for the name "Alaga," the blend of cane and corn syrups that was the company’s signature product. The label featured two clasped hands (representing the couple’s union) in front of a blue ribbon (signifying the excellence of the product) and a bundle of wheat (a reminder of all the breads on which Alaga should be poured).

Alaga is still the most important product of the company (now called Whitfield Foods, Inc.). The Whitfields still own it, and the head office is in the original building. But the business thrives on change. This change has not always been successful, as the list of defunct products indicates: baked beans, barbecue sauce, "Sunnygold Brand ‘Delicious Corn and Cane Syrup,’" "Pansy Corn and Cane Syrup." Mr. Whitfield, Sr. even dabbled in pickles. But the company has found a receptive audience for the dozen items it currently offers.

Personalized semis roll out of the back gates during the week, mobile billboards advertising Alaga Syrup and the Montgomery Biscuits ("Together We Are #1") and laden with bottles of corn syrup, cane blends, apple cider, and hot sauce (which contains 5 percent Alaga—"Sweet Hot Alabama"). Just three "core products" make up the bulk of the business, however. After a hundred years, Alaga is still number one, virtually unchanged except that it now comes in a bottle rather than a can. Like Golden Eagle, Whitfield tried a basic breakfast syrup, but the larger company could afford to compete; today the pancake syrup in the bear-shaped bottle is one of the top sellers. And the third most important product is Yellow Label, the favorite "soppin’ syrup" of the Magic City.

Whitfield Foods is still in its original location under the ownership of the current generation of Whitfields. But unlike Golden Eagle, which (in spirit at least) never really left the Pattersons’ backyard, the Montgomery syrup manufacturer grew up and out. It distributes its products across the entire country, from the west coast to New England, though the demand is higher in some areas than others. Alabama, Florida, and Georgia are obvious markets, but other successful regions include Chicago and Detroit. During the periods of out-migration to northern cities after World War II, people left the South behind but took their taste buds with them.

There are about 120 employees working in Whitfield’s different sectors. They put out over a million bottles of syrup every year. The process for Alaga is almost identical to that of Golden Eagle, just blend, bottle, cap, and label. In addition to syrup, the company also "co-packs" juices and beverages for other companies. Co-packing involves no advertisement or promotion of the other products; Whitfield simply hires out its facilities and workers.

Mr. Boyer had sent word to all the neighbors that he was grinding cane. People began to drop in—the Tatums, the Cooks and others. . . .

The pale green milky-looking cane juice poured out slowly into a barrel . . . Flies began to come . . . Like the flies, children and grown-ups came too, all eager to taste.

"Hit looks like ole dirty soapy wash-water to me," said Shoestring Slater, frowning.

"But hit tastes like sugar candy to me!" retorted Birdie.

Syrup making days on autumn weekends were "[f]or the whole community. Everybody didn’t raise syrup, but everybody helped make it." Often several families would bring their supply of sugarcane to a neighbor who owned a cane mill. They would give the owner some of the syrup they made in exchange for the use of the equipment. Women brought food, men ran the mill, and children played baseball, chewed cane, and made themselves sick drinking straight cane juice. Even when people made during the week and neighbors were too busy to spend the entire day around the kettle, visitors would drop by for a quart and children would rush off the school buses to get a swallow of juice.

Despite decreasing rural populations and increasing preference for cheap, mass-produced items, sugarcane syrup is still in demand. In the monthly Alabama Farmers and Consumers Bulletin, people write to seek and sell cane and syrup equipment ("Blue ribbon bedding sugar cane $40 . . . or trade for kettle for cooking syrup"). Some people are continuing a family tradition, passing it down to the next generation. Others are novice cane cooks, either young people trying to learn a skill their parents never knew or older folks trying to recreate a memory they did not appreciate until it started to fade.

Independent operations host autumn syrup days all around the state. The Stones live in Selma but take their cane every year to a mill in West Blocton. Judge Jimmy Stubbs has been hosting soppings in Titus since 1969, the year after his father, a veteran syrup maker, died. Atlas Green in Brundidge keeps a fire going under both a syrup kettle and a wild hog every Thanksgiving; visitors can watch the syrup boil as they eat a plate of barbecue fresh from the spit. Carlos Wright goes home to Manila every year to man the evaporator pan, passing the skill on to his son, who represents the fifth generation of syrup makers in the family. Moses Batie makes in Needmore, Rich Harrison in Eufaula. Ozark, Union Springs, Monroeville, Grove Hill—the future of sugarcane is not as bleak as one producer lamented: "Used to every little group of people had one. . . . But they’re hard to find now." Such events are difficult to find, but they are far from disappearing. They are, in fact, a "growing thing."

Don Dean and his wife Carol host an event at their farm in Hartford on the first Saturday of November. They have been making syrup for only seven years, since his retirement in 1998. Although he remembers his grandfather making syrup, Mr. Dean never learned the process. It was actually a young friend of his in Eufaula who taught him the basics. Over a hundred people usually join the Deans, syrup seekers from Alabama, Florida, Tennessee, North Carolina, Minnesota. Those who come at sun-up to work enjoy biscuits and sausage (and syrup) before cranking the tractor and beginning the grind. Guests arrive throughout the morning, depositing covered dishes on picnic tables for the lunchtime feast. Strangers and friends mingle and chew cane as they wait. Around 2:00 the process is complete, and the syrup is ready for sale. At three dollars a bottle, the eight gallons produced this day do not bring a lot of profit, but that does not matter. That is not the point. As Mr. Dean said, "But it’s a lot of fun, you know. And we’ve had a lot of good times here."

The ultimate example of this type of gathering takes place in a town just outside of Auburn. On a typical day, Loachapoka has a population of less than 200. On the "Syrup Sopping" days, 15,000 invade the Lee County countryside. The Soppings are held on the same day as the town’s historical fair, which contributes to the visitor draw. The mayor of Loachapoka, Larry Justice, provides the cane, Hardee’s provides the biscuits, and (on a really good day) Elvis provides the entertainment, along with the Loachapoka High School Marching Band. Soppings have been an annual event since 1976, another example of a conscious effort to preserve a piece of history.

There is definitely an art to sopping syrup. First, you pour some on your plate, put a good portion of butter on it, and then with a kitchen knife, stir it up real good until the butter and syrup are mixed. Then take either the top or bottom half of [a] biscuit, drag it toward you through the syrup collecting a generous portion of syrup on the biscuit, and get it to your mouth before any drips off. . . . Glory!!! Wish I had some now.