Death by Molasses in Boston

Near a wide spot along a crushed oyster shelled road, in Chacahoula, Louisiana (population under 400) -- I learned all about a curious human demise known as "death by molasses" at the kitchen table of my Great Grand'Mere, Hirma Robichaux.

For those of you unfamiliar with Louisiana geography, Chacahoula is located in Terrebonne Parish, in the Southwestern part of the state. Chacahoula had it's beginnings on an Indian trail along the Bayou Lafourche, that as most did, morphed into a cattle trail. My Chitimacha Native American relatives called it, "Tchakaoula."

Grand'Mere Robichaux was the kind of grand old matriarch that closely guarded her most prized talent -- being the best cook in our extended family. No one, not even Grandpere, was allowed in the kitchen when she was baking or cooking -- except me. No one was stealing her secret recipes!

Why I was allowed in that ever-brewing coffee fragrant space, where no one dared step, was rooted in a simple truth -- she had already determined that I had no interest or aptitude for cooking. (She was mistaken). Her cloak-and-dagger ingredients were safe with me. Besides, her kitchen was the best place for me to practice my accordion and for her to supervise that endeavor.

It was on one fateful January morning, that my accordion practice collided with one of her favorite secret cooking ingredients -- molasses. Diatonic accordion bellows extended fully, playing her favorite "La Valse de quatre-vingt-dix-neuf ans" (Convict Waltz) -- I unknowingly knocked over and broke an entire precious bottle of Steens Dark Style Molasses.

Cadien words that I didn't fully understand at that age, flew around the kitchen, as Hirma tried to recapture some of the thick, wet, and sticky brown goop. Poking his head in the door, Grandpere quickly surmised the situation and pronounced, "Well, it's the ‘Great Molasses Flood of Boston' all over again" -- just before she threw a wooden kitchen spoon at him. Married for nearly seventy years at the time, he'd dodged so many wooden spoons, that the adage, "Slower than molasses in January," did not apply to him, despite his advanced age.

Later evening, after dinner and farm chores, Grandpere Emile would tell me the story of the Great Molasses Flood of Boston. As a young man, he had been there on a business trip at the time of the disaster and had helped in the cleanup.

Now, there are some Bostonians today, who refer to the The Great Boston Molasses Flood of 1919 as an urban myth. Possibly, they never heard of it, they do not know, of the true disaster that took twenty-one lives and injured over one hundred and fifty others. Others today, nearly ninety years later, will profess to get a whiff of the clearly identifiable bouquet of molasses on blistering summer days, when the wind carries from the east. This left over historical reminder, according to Hirma -- was a "feux-folet" ghost of times past. I've never been to Boston in the summer, so I don't know if it's true, whether you can wake up smell and the molasses to this day or not.

For those of you, who don't know the story -- in 1919, on the inner harbor waterfront side of Boston's Commercial Street, just parallel to Copp's Hill once stood a colossal storage container, originally erected by the Purity Distilling Company, to hold molasses. It held two and one half million gallons of molasses. Molasses was still a precious commodity on the day before the prohibition of alcohol was to take affect, as it is a key ingredient in making rum.

According to Emile, on the day of the catastrophe, the weather was unseasonably warm. He was glad that there was no snow. Accustomed to warmer Louisiana weather, he found the big city of Boston, not much to his liking -- especially the snow. After the disaster, he'd read in the newspaper that the tank was completely full, maybe over full.

The account Emile told was -- On the day of the tragedy, the weather was unseasonably warm. He was glad that there was no snow. Accustomed to warmer Louisiana weather, he found the big city of Boston, not much to his liking -- especially the snow. After the calamity, he'd read that the tank was completely full, maybe over full. He was forever glad that he had been blocks away for a lunchtime meeting. Even at a distance, Emile said that there was a strange muffled noise, loud enough to cause everyone, just enough curiosity to look up and question, "What was that?"

It turned out it was the Goliath sized molasses tank exploding. As a kid, I'd already seen the banks of the Mississippi flooded, so it wasn't hard for me to picture the destruction. However, as Emile told the story -- it was hard to imagine how terrible it must have been with sticky molasses being the flood and actually killing people. Emile claimed that the wall of molasses was about ten feet or more high, as it rushed over everything and everyone - leveling several city blocks of all structures. It even killed a large number of horses and dogs.

As a young girl, I cringed as he talked about a little girl's body he'd seen. He said she was about nine or ten years old, her body laying on a stretcher, glazed over by molasses so thick, it looked like she was in a butterfly cocoon. He also told of streets being so thick in molasses that it oozed two to three feet deep. Emile said it took over six months to hose the devastated city with salt water, cover with sand, sweep it up and start the process all over again.

By the time Emile finished this particular snippet of a history lesson, I was destined for months to have nightmares. The final chapter of this bedtime tale, was for him to reveal that there had once been a similar "flood" of molasses on Market Street, in New Orleans, eight years earlier. Thoughts of it being that close to home was not comforting to a ten year old girl, who didn't really comprehend that this tragedy was something that happened decades before.

Therefore, getting back to the purpose of this Cajun kitchen story -- this tale of that fateful January day when I knocked over the molasses, had a little "lagniappe" (something extra) twist. For, the name of Hirma's cookie recipe, had been dubbed long before my mishap, by my Grandpere Vernon, as "Death by Molasses Cookies."

Having molasses as a key ingredient, meant that since molasses, being a natural, well-known folk cure for constipation had a consequence, if you ate too many of these delicious cookies. My Grandpere Vernon knew first hand, having snuck the whole cookie jar of them outside to the tool shed, then eating every cookie all by himself -- what the result was.

Here is Hirma's Death by Molasses Cookie recipe:

Ingredients:

1/2 cup applesauce

1 1/4 cups raw brown sugar, separating out 1/4 cup for later use

6 tablespoons butter, softened

1/4 cup dark Steens molasses

1 large egg

2 cups all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking soda

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon ground fresh ginger

1/2 teaspoon ground cloves

1/2 cup of crushed or slivered pecans, walnuts, or other preferred nut

Instructions:

Combine applesauce, sugar, and butter; mix by hand extremely well or beat with a mixer at medium speed until well blended (about 3 minutes). Add molasses, nuts, and egg; beat well.

Combine flour, spices, salt, and soda into flour sifter and sift into a bowl. Gradually add wet sugar ingredients to sugar mixture, beating until blended. Cover and freeze dough 30 minutes or until firm, for ease of handling.

Preheat oven to 375°.

With moist hands, shape dough into 32 (1-inch) balls. Roll balls in 1/4 cup raw brown sugar. Place 3 inches apart on baking sheets coated with cooking spray. Bake at 375° for 8 to 10 minutes. Cool on pans 5 minutes. Remove from pans; cool completely on wire racks.

Remember: This amazing cookie recipe is only meant for those with self-control!

So, my question of those of you, from and in Boston, who should be "in the know" -- Do you really wake up and smell the molasses in the summer time?