The syrup from the kind grown for human consumption is bitter-sweet, like molasses, but not as thick. My ex-FIL loved it on pancakes.
It is grown around where I live, but for animal feed. Same as the corn grown in North Texas.
CD
Today's Bread (2019-2022)
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The syrup from the kind grown for human consumption is bitter-sweet, like molasses, but not as thick. My ex-FIL loved it on pancakes.
It is grown around where I live, but for animal feed. Same as the corn grown in North Texas.
CD
Oh - I thought after quickly googling that it was a grain used in the bread. Maybe it makes both syrup and grain. I like the sound of the syrup - anything with a bitter twist appeals to me.
It is a sugar, and I believe there is a granular version. I have never seen that. In fact, sorghum is not widely used in modern cooking, although I hear it is making a comeback.
I've never cooked with it, but my ex-wife and her mom did.
CD
I don't know how I'd describe it, less bitter than commercial molasses, much lighter as well, more the color of honey.
We always had sorghum in the house, used mainly mixed with butter and smeared onto (American) biscuits (which look like, and are made similarly to, but are not, scones, though sorghum and butter would work very nicely on a scone), and it was sort of the last thing you'd eat to top off your breakfast. As breakfast was winding down, you'd put a dab of butter in your plate, pour a bit of sorghum over it, mix it up with your fork, then smear it on that last biscuit and say, "Lord, I don't believe I could eat another bite!" - and then eat that biscuit.
I'll take a picture of my sorghum jar later and post it. I also have a sorghum story (imagine that).
Here's my sorghum in the jar, followed by a bit in a prep bowl, followed by a bit with butter mixed in.
When I was a kid, we'd drive, every few months, over to Gnaw Bone, Indiana, about two hours each way.
There was a sort of outdoor market there, sold all kinds of stuff, kind of like a flea market, and there was an old man set up in the back with a cane press. He had a bored donkey turning it.
He was pressing and selling sorghum, and that's why we were there. He sold sorghum in gallon cans, like paint, and smaller cans as well, and it wasn't cheap. We'd buy a gallon, and it would last a couple of months, then we'd go back for more.
One trip over, the old man was just sitting there, his wife taking the money, and the donkey tied up to the truck bumper. Dad got to talking to him and commented that the press wasn't running, and it was a good time to take a break.
"Ain't takin' no break. Press is broke."
Now, my dad is the most mechanically-minded person I've ever met; in another life, he probably was an engineer. So he asked the old man to show what's wrong, and he reached down, picked up some kind of metal piece, two pieces really, and held them up for my dad to see.
"That's it right there, and I'm not real sure what I'm gonna do. The man who built the thing is dead, and I don't know anybody who could make that part."
Dad rolled it over in his hands several times, looked at it from every angle, studied it, then handed it back and said that was some pretty bad luck told him he hoped he got it working again. We bought our sorghum and left.
A few days after we got home, Dad started working in the back corner of barn, where he'd built a small forge because he'd had to make several missing pieces from the sawmill he'd bought a few years before. I liked when he was doing metalwork, because he didn't need any help from me, it was a one-person job, I just had to hang around and be handy in case something came up.
Any free time he had in the evenings, when we weren't sawing or working on something else, he was out at the forge, hammering away.
After a few weeks, on a Sunday morning, he told me to get in the truck and "come on, Egghead!" Egghead was what he always called me, because I did well in school, but when he said it, it wasn't a compliment.
I had no idea where we were going, which wasn't uncommon, but we left out of the house, went into Oxford, then out Contreras Road, and that told me we were going to Indiana, but that didn't help much, because there were a lot of places in Indiana where we went.
By the time we got out past Oldenburg, I knew that we had to be heading to Gnaw Bone, which I couldn't figure out, because we been just a few weeks before, but sure enough, that's where we ended up. Out of the truck with my dad carrying something wrapped up in a towel, and off to the sorghum man.
There he was, sitting with a much smaller stock of sorghum cans, the press not running, and the donkey wasn't even there.
We walked over and Dad handed him the towel and said, "Tell me what you think of that."
Unwrapped, it was a replacement piece for the piece that had broken. My dad had made it at the house and brought it over.
The man looked at it, nodded, and said he thought it might work and told us to come back and find out. It took the two of them no time to hook it back up, and the man handed the pole to my dad and asked him walk a circle with it, then another, and sure enough, it was a perfect fit. The press was working again.
Boy, did he ever shake my dad's hand, and slap him on the back, introduced him to his wife, and couldn't quit saying how, "Brother, you have saved my life! Yessir, you really have! I can't believe how you did that! All from memory like that. Oh, you have really saved my life!"
We walked out of there with a free gallon can of sorghum, and the promise that any more we wanted from then on was free of charge...which was promptly forgotten the next time we went over.
When I was a kid, we'd drive, every few months, over to Gnaw Bone, Indiana, about two hours each way.
There was a sort of outdoor market there, sold all kinds of stuff, kind of like a flea market, and there was an old man set up in the back with a cane press. He had a bored donkey turning it.
He was pressing and selling sorghum, and that's why we were there. He sold sorghum in gallon cans, like paint, and smaller cans as well, and it wasn't cheap. We'd buy a gallon, and it would last a couple of months, then we'd go back for more.
One trip over, the old man was just sitting there, his wife taking the money, and the donkey tied up to the truck bumper. Dad got to talking to him and commented that the press wasn't running, and it was a good time to take a break.
"Ain't takin' no break. Press is broke."
Now, my dad is the most mechanically-minded person I've ever met; in another life, he probably was an engineer. So he asked the old man to show what's wrong, and he reached down, picked up some kind of metal piece, two pieces really, and held them up for my dad to see.
"That's it right there, and I'm not real sure what I'm gonna do. The man who built the thing is dead, and I don't know anybody who could make that part."
Dad rolled it over in his hands several times, looked at it from every angle, studied it, then handed it back and said that was some pretty bad luck told him he hoped he got it working again. We bought our sorghum and left.
A few days after we got home, Dad started working in the back corner of barn, where he'd built a small forge because he'd had to make several missing pieces from the sawmill he'd bought a few years before. I liked when he was doing metalwork, because he didn't need any help from me, it was a one-person job, I just had to hang around and be handy in case something came up.
Any free time he had in the evenings, when we weren't sawing or working on something else, he was out at the forge, hammering away.
After a few weeks, on a Sunday morning, he told me to get in the truck and "come on, Egghead!" Egghead was what he always called me, because I did well in school, but when he said it, it wasn't a compliment.
I had no idea where we were going, which wasn't uncommon, but we left out of the house, went into Oxford, then out Contreras Road, and that told me we were going to Indiana, but that didn't help much, because there were a lot of places in Indiana where we went.
By the time we got out past Oldenburg, I knew that we had to be heading to Gnaw Bone, which I couldn't figure out, because we been just a few weeks before, but sure enough, that's where we ended up. Out of the truck with my dad carrying something wrapped up in a towel, and off to the sorghum man.
There he was, sitting with a much smaller stock of sorghum cans, the press not running, and the donkey wasn't even there.
We walked over and Dad handed him the towel and said, "Tell me what you think of that."
Unwrapped, it was a replacement piece for the piece that had broken. My dad had made it at the house and brought it over.
The man looked at it, nodded, and said he thought it might work and told us to come back and find out. It took the two of them no time to hook it back up, and the man handed the pole to my dad and asked him walk a circle with it, then another, and sure enough, it was a perfect fit. The press was working again.
Boy, did he ever shake my dad's hand, and slap him on the back, introduced him to his wife, and couldn't quit saying how, "Brother, you have saved my life! Yessir, you really have! I can't believe how you did that! All from memory like that. Oh, you have really saved my life!"
We walked out of there with a free gallon can of sorghum, and the promise that any more we wanted from then on was free of charge...which was promptly forgotten the next time we went over.
medtran49
Forum GOD!
I have a ball of dough rising that will be half garlic rolls for tonight and half plain rolls for sammies, as we are out of sandwich bread, but don't have to go to grocery for anything else. That ball of dough is as soft and smooth as a baby's bottom. I have very high hopes for the finished product!
Here's my sorghum in the jar, followed by a bit in a prep bowl, followed by a bit with butter mixed in.
When I was a kid, we'd drive, every few months, over to Gnaw Bone, Indiana, about two hours each way.
There was a sort of outdoor market there, sold all kinds of stuff, kind of like a flea market, and there was an old man set up in the back with a cane press. He had a bored donkey turning it.
He was pressing and selling sorghum, and that's why we were there. He sold sorghum in gallon cans, like paint, and smaller cans as well, and it wasn't cheap. We'd buy a gallon, and it would last a couple of months, then we'd go back for more.
One trip over, the old man was just sitting there, his wife taking the money, and the donkey tied up to the truck bumper. Dad got to talking to him and commented that the press wasn't running, and it was a good time to take a break.
"Ain't takin' no break. Press is broke."
Now, my dad is the most mechanically-minded person I've ever met; in another life, he probably was an engineer. So he asked the old man to show what's wrong, and he reached down, picked up some kind of metal piece, two pieces really, and held them up for my dad to see.
"That's it right there, and I'm not real sure what I'm gonna do. The man who built the thing is dead, and I don't know anybody who could make that part."
Dad rolled it over in his hands several times, looked at it from every angle, studied it, then handed it back and said that was some pretty bad luck told him he hoped he got it working again. We bought our sorghum and left.
A few days after we got home, Dad started working in the back corner of barn, where he'd built a small forge because he'd had to make several missing pieces from the sawmill he'd bought a few years before. I liked when he was doing metalwork, because he didn't need any help from me, it was a one-person job, I just had to hang around and be handy in case something came up.
Any free time he had in the evenings, when we weren't sawing or working on something else, he was out at the forge, hammering away.
After a few weeks, on a Sunday morning, he told me to get in the truck and "come on, Egghead!" Egghead was what he always called me, because I did well in school, but when he said it, it wasn't a compliment.
I had no idea where we were going, which wasn't uncommon, but we left out of the house, went into Oxford, then out Contreras Road, and that told me we were going to Indiana, but that didn't help much, because there were a lot of places in Indiana where we went.
By the time we got out past Oldenburg, I knew that we had to be heading to Gnaw Bone, which I couldn't figure out, because we been just a few weeks before, but sure enough, that's where we ended up. Out of the truck with my dad carrying something wrapped up in a towel, and off to the sorghum man.
There he was, sitting with a much smaller stock of sorghum cans, the press not running, and the donkey wasn't even there.
We walked over and Dad handed him the towel and said, "Tell me what you think of that."
Unwrapped, it was a replacement piece for the piece that had broken. My dad had made it at the house and brought it over.
The man looked at it, nodded, and said he thought it might work and told us to come back and find out. It took the two of them no time to hook it back up, and the man handed the pole to my dad and asked him walk a circle with it, then another, and sure enough, it was a perfect fit. The press was working again.
Boy, did he ever shake my dad's hand, and slap him on the back, introduced him to his wife, and couldn't quit saying how, "Brother, you have saved my life! Yessir, you really have! I can't believe how you did that! All from memory like that. Oh, you have really saved my life!"
We walked out of there with a free gallon can of sorghum, and the promise that any more we wanted from then on was free of charge...which was promptly forgotten the next time we went over.
What a wonderful story that is. Your Dad shares something of your obsessive nature I think. Well, that is what I thought. Sorry if that is off beam.
Funny that - your words took me back to the first time I saw anyone making bread dough. She was the mother of a boyfriend. I was watching her knead dough in her kitchen and she said to me almost exactly those words, some 50 years ago.
You mean the baby bottom comment? I always think of dough like that.
A few years ago, on another (non-cooking) forum, there was a wonderful, wonderful older woman, Jane, in NYC, a real Ruth Gordon type, if anyone remembers her.
I posted a pic of some pretty ugly dough, with some stretch marks in it and pock marks, and the photo made it even worse, but it's just dough, so aI doesn't really matter, right?
"That looks just like my ass, all 81 years of it."
I suppose I'll put these here, since they're a form of bread. My first attempt at raised doughnuts:
As you can see, it took me a few doughnuts to get my timing down, and it still could be better.
I'll add that I'm squarely in the doghouse at the moment. I made doughnuts at MrsTasty's request, after she was saying that she was craving a doughnut.
This morning, as soon as I finished frying them off, I rolled one of the holes in the glaze, speared it with a fork, and gave it to her to try.
What I didn't realize was that it was the same fork that I'd taken the doughnuts out of the hot oil with, and it was still quite warm, so she burned the inside of her lip with it. Ouch!
Any good works I've done for the last couple of months, and the next couple of months coming up, have just been erased.
As you can see, it took me a few doughnuts to get my timing down, and it still could be better.
I'll add that I'm squarely in the doghouse at the moment. I made doughnuts at MrsTasty's request, after she was saying that she was craving a doughnut.
This morning, as soon as I finished frying them off, I rolled one of the holes in the glaze, speared it with a fork, and gave it to her to try.
What I didn't realize was that it was the same fork that I'd taken the doughnuts out of the hot oil with, and it was still quite warm, so she burned the inside of her lip with it. Ouch!
Any good works I've done for the last couple of months, and the next couple of months coming up, have just been erased.
Frizz1974
Veteran
A friend has been experimenting with his sour dough mother to see how long it can go without a feed. He is a chef but also a product developer and a bit of a scientist. He posted me up some last week from
Victoria. Because of COVID 19 it was in transit for a week but it’s bounced back.
Victoria. Because of COVID 19 it was in transit for a week but it’s bounced back.
Not my best work, but it'll see us through the next couple of days:
Jbrannen2468
Well-Known Member
I need help with a recipe! Can't find anything like it anywhere. I want to alter my home made pancake recipe to use as a bread recipe. So when I get ready I can make batter and pour a few slices up on my griddle. Pancake consistency is close... i see lots of people using pancakes for breakfast sandwiches... but I want the griddle cooked bread to taste more like store bought white bread. My current pancake recipe looks like this:
2 cups self rising flour
2 cups milk or buttermilk
¹/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup melted butter
1 egg
Any ideas on how to change this from breakfast to a more versatile all around white bread?
2 cups self rising flour
2 cups milk or buttermilk
¹/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup melted butter
1 egg
Any ideas on how to change this from breakfast to a more versatile all around white bread?
MypinchofItaly
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This is my first attempt with Soda and Buttermilk Bread. I’ve used a mix of Spelt flour and AP flour and I’ve added a tbsp of poppy seeds as well
I’m quite pleased with it
I’m quite pleased with it
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