Molasses, that blackstrap sugarcane sweetener, dark as pitch and rich with iron and minerals, may be an acquired taste. Its unsavory history in this country goes back to a triangle of trade, which moved slaves from West Africa to the Caribbean where ships took on molasses bound for Boston for use in making rum. Booze-laden, they then completed the route, returning to Africa, leaving the drink, and taking humans. A by-product of sugar production, molasses was cheaper than white sugar and, before World War 1, led the sweetener market in the United States along with maple syrup. In Arkansas the lazy Susan on our kitchen table always spun with a jar of molasses and a jar of honey—set to please the tastes of two camps, one preferring oatmeal with molasses and the other choosing honey. It isn’t a subtle taste—these days most homes keep a dusty jar in the cupboard for molasses cookies or gingerbread. But at my house the jar lives on—sticky sides ensuring a firm grip during transport from cupboard to table, its journey on a cornbread boat ending with passage from a child’s hand to waiting teeth. It can also be made into my favorite pie.

When shelves are empty, cupboards bare, no cream in sight or hoard of chocolate, there is molasses. And, if there are molasses and eggs from our hens, a little flour and butter, there can be pie. I have a few of Oma’s recipe cards, cup measures written with cursive curls and tips in the margin. It could be that the magic of her molasses pie can be found on this card but I’m guessing her experience, that place beyond the margins where craft lives, is where the secrets lie. If I had known, as a child I would have reached a small hand upward, past the counter, over the edge of a cool bowl to pinch-test the consistency of her pie dough, to watch as ingredients were carefully combined. My children have come to know my own molasses pie, perhaps believing that maybe I have some magic of my own.

If molasses is a new taste for you, you might begin with the lighter variety as it is more sweet than strong. And then I encourage you to move, armed with fresh whipped cream, along the spectrum toward dark or even blackstrap.