Real Canadian Hardtack. Also Bannock, Sourdough, And Other Leavened Breads

Real Canadian Hardtack.

Also

Bannock, Sourdough,

And

Other Leavened Breads

(From my Cookbook)

Note: Bannock, sourdough, quick breads, yeast breads, and pastries all tend to be named more for their, origin, size, shape, and method of production than for the actual ingredients.

          As unwittingly attested to by Johnny Horton’s famous song North to Alaska, and also by a John Wayne movie, the famous" American" Alaskan Gold Rush was, in the real world, the "Canadian" KLONDIKE GOLD RUSH which took place "a little South-East of Nome" in Canada. There never has been a gold rush in Alaska and in all probability never will be.

          Alaska was primarily only a base camp or jumping off place(due to the presence of the Alaska Pan-handle; which left Canada without a port North of what is now Prince Rupert) for American and other foreign-international, thief's, speculators and gold- seekers who were traveling by boat; but there was also an overland all Canadian route. Most of the gold and now diamonds were and are to be found in the "Canadian" North West and Yukon Territories. In the modern era much of the vast "Alaskan" oil reserve also comes from Canadian territories

          There were, five main reasons why early Canadians, used quick breads and especially sourdough. They were quick, versatile, didn't require a lot of ingredients, and the dry ingredients could be mixed far ahead of time which made them easy to carry. To the natives, they were also, a completely new and valuable source of food and nutrition.
HARDTACK is NOT made from SOURDOUGH,
SOURDOUGH definitely is NOT HARDTACK;
They both ORIGINATED--
LONG BEFORE THE DAWN OF HISTORY--
AND WERE OLD--
MILLENNIUMS BEFORE--
ANYONE INHABITED THE "AMERICAS".
Scroll down to Hard-tack recipe, found after poem by Robert Service, The Spell of the Yukon.

The Trail of Ninety-Eight I Gold! We leapt from out benches. Gold! We sprang from our stools. Gold! We wheeled in the furrow, fired with faith of fools. Fearless, unfound, unfitted, far from the night and the cold, Heard we the clarion summons, followed the master-lure -- Gold! Men from the sand of the Sunland; men from the woods of the West; Men from the farms and the cities, into the Northland we pressed. Graybeards and striplings and women, good men and bad men and bold, Leaving our homes and our loved ones, crying exultantly -- "Gold!" Never was seen such an army, pitiful, futile, unfit; Never was seen such a spirit, manifold courage and grit. Never has been such a cohort under one banner unrolled As surged to the ragged-edged Arctic, urged by the arch-tempter -- Gold. "Farewell!" we cried to our dearests; little we cared for their tears. "Farewell!" We cried to the humdrum and yoke of the hireling years; Just like a pack of school-boys, and the big crowd cheered us good-bye. Never were hearts so uplifted, never were hopes so high. The spectral shores flitted past us, and every whirl of the screw Hurled us nearer to fortune, and ever we planned what we'd do -- Do with the gold when we got it -- big, shiny nuggets like plums, There in the sand of the river, gouging it out with our thumbs. And one man wanted a castle, another a racing stud; A third would cruise in a palace yacht like a red-necked prince of blood. And so we dreamed and we vaunted, millionaires to a man, Leaping to wealth in our visions long ere the trail began. II We landed in wind-swept Skagway. We joined the weltering mass, Clamoring over their outfits, waiting to climb the Pass. We tighted our girths and pack-straps; we linked on the Human Chain, Struggling up to the summit, where every step was a pain. Gone was the joy of our faces, grim and haggard and pale; The heedless mirth of the shipboard was changed to the care of the trail. We flung ourselves in the struggle, packing our grub in relays, Step by step to the summit in the bale of the winter days. Floundering deep in the sump-holes, stumbling out again; Crying with cold and weakness, crazy with fear and pain. Then from the depths of our travail, ere our spirits were broke, Grim, tenacious and savage, the lust of the trail awoke. "Klondike or bust!" rang the slogan; every man for his own. Oh, how we flogged the horses, staggering skin and bone! Oh, how we cursed their weakness, anguish they could not tell, Breaking their hearts in our passion, lashing them on till they fell! For grub meant gold to our thinking, and all that could walk must pack; The sheep for the shambles stumbled, each with a load on its back; And even the swine were burdened, and grunted and squealed and rolled, And men went mad in the moment, huskily clamoring "Gold!" Oh, we were brutes and devils, goaded by lust and fear! Our eyes were strained to the summit; the weaklings dropped to the rear, Falling in heaps by the trail-side, heart-broken, limp and wan; But the gaps closed up in an instant, and heedless the chain went on. Never will I forget it, there on the mountain face, Antlike, men with burdens, clinging in icy space; Dogged, determined and dauntless, cruel and callous and cold, Cursing, blaspheming, reviling, and ever that battle-cry -- "Gold!" Thus toiled we, the army of fortune, in hunger and hope and despair, Till glacier, mountain and forest vanished, and radiantly fair, There at our feet lay Lake Bennett, and down to its welcome we ran: The trail of the land was over, the trail of the water began. III We built our boats and we launched them. Never has been such a fleet; A packing-case for a bottom, a mackinaw for a sheet Shapeless, grotesque, lopsided, flimsy, makeshift and crude, Each man after his fashion builded as best he could. Each man worked like a demon, as prow to rudder we raced; The winds of the Wild cried "Hurry!" the voice of the waters, "Haste!" We hated those driving before us; we dreaded those pressing behind; We cursed the slow current that bore us; we prayed to the God of the wind. Spring! and the hillsides flourished, vivid in jewelled green; Spring! and our hearts' blood nourished envy and hatred and spleen. Little cared we for the Spring-birth; much cared we to get on -- Stake in the Great White Channel, stake ere the best be gone. The greed of the gold possessed us; pity and love were forgot; Covetous visions obsessed us; brother with brother fought. Partner with partner wrangled, each one claiming his due; Wrangled and halved their outfits, sawing their boats in two. Thus wise we voyaged Lake Bennett, Tagish, then Windy Arm, Sinister, savage and baleful, boding us hate and harm. Many a scow was shattered there on that iron shore; Many a heart was broken staining at sweep and oar. We roused Lake Marsh with a chorus, we drifted many a mile; There was the canyon before us -- cave-like its dark defile; The shores swept faster and faster; the river narrowed to wrath; Waters that hissed disaster reared upright in our path. Beneath us the green tumult churning, above us the cavernous gloom; Around us, swift twisting and turning, the black, sullen walls of a tomb. We spun like a chip in a mill-race; our hearts hammered under the test; Then -- oh, the relief on each chill face! -- we soared into sunlight and rest. Hand sought for hand on the instant. Cried we, "Our troubles are o'er!" Then, like a rumble of thunder, heard we a canorous raor. Leaping and boiling and seething, saw we a cauldron afume; There was the rage of the rapids, there was the menace of doom. The river springs like a racer, seeps through a gash in the rock; Butts at the boulder-ribbed bottom, staggers and rears at the shock; Leaps like a terrified monster, writhes in its fury and pain; Then with the crash of a demon springs to the onset again. Dared we that ravening terror; heard we its din our ears; Called on the Gods of our fathers, juggled forlorn with our fears; Sank to our waists in its fury, tossed to the sky like a fleece; Then, when our dread was the greatest, crashed into safety and peace. But what of the others that followed, losing their boats by the score? We could we see them and hear them, strung down that desolate shore. What of the poor souls that perished? Little of them shall be said -- On to the Golden Valley, pause not to bury the dead. Then there were days of drifting, breezes soft as a sigh; Night trailed her robe of jewels over the floor of the sky. The moonlit stream was a python, silver, sinuous, vast, That writhed on a shroud of velvet -- well, it was done at last. There were the tents of Dawson, there the scar of the slide; Swiftley we poled o'er the shallows, swiftly leapt o'er the side. Fired fringed the mouth of Bonanza; sunset gilded the dome; The test of the trail was over -- thank God, thank God, we were Home! The Spell of the Yukon I wanted the gold, and I sought it; I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy, I fought it; I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it -- Came out with a fortune last fall, -- Yet somehow life's not what I thought it, And somehow the gold isn't all. No! There's the land. (Have you seen it?) It's the cussedest land that I know, From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it To the deep, deathlike valleys below. Some say God was tired when He made it; Some say it's a fine land to shun; Maybe; but there's some as would trade it For no land on earth -- and I'm one. You come to get rich (damned good reason); You feel like an exile at first; You hate it like hell for a season, And then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kinds of sinning; It twists you from foe to a friend; It seems it's been since the beginning; It seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow That's plumb-full of hush to the brim; I've watched the big, husky sun wallow In crimson and gold, and grow dim, Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming, And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop; And I've thought that I surely was dreaming, With the peace o' the world piled on top. The summer -- no sweeter was ever; The sunshiny woods all athrill; The grayling aleap in the river, The bighorn asleep on the hill. The strong life that never knows harness; The wilds where the caribou call; The freshness, the freedom, the farness -- O God! how I'm stuck on it all. The winter! the brightness that blinds you, The white land locked tight as a drum, The cold fear that follows and finds you, The silence that bludgeons you dumb. The snows that are older than history, The woods where the weird shadows slant; The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery, I've bade 'em good-by -- but I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless, And the rivers all run God knows where; There are lives that are erring and aimless, And deaths that just hang by a hair; There are hardships that nobody reckons; There are valleys unpeopled and still; There's a land -- oh, it beckons and beckons, And I want to go back -- and I will. They're making my money diminish; I'm sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God! when I'm skinned to a finish I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight -- and you bet it's no sham-fight; It's hell! -- but I've been there before; And it's better than this by a damsite -- So me for the Yukon once more. There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting; It's luring me on as of old; Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting So much as just finding the gold. It's the great, big, broad land 'way up yonder, It's the forests where silence has lease; It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder, It's the stillness that fills me with peace. Hardtack, Hardtack. Hardtack, Hardtack, Hardtack, HARDTACK; IS NOT A SODA CRACKER;  IT SHOULD NOT BE LIGHT OR FLAKY; SO BEING WOULD DESTROY IT'S WHOLE PURPOSE, AND REASON FOR EXISTENCE.  You do not use any fat, baking powder, baking soda, sourdough starter, or yeast in the making of hard tack-because hard tack is unleavened. Really there are only two ingredients-salt is optional. Hard tack is NOT and never was a form of bannock.BANNOCK NEVER WAS AN UNLEAVENED FORM OF BREAD.

        

Union, Recommendations for Producing Hardtack,1863- Right in the  Middle of Civil War in the United States of the Americas-only problem, final product would be a biscuit,  or cracker, not Hardtack. “Should be made of best quality of superfine, or what is usually known as extra superfine flour; or better, of extra and extra superfine, (half and half). Hard bread should be white, crisp, light and exhibit a flaky appearance when broken. If tough, solid and compact, is evident the fault is either in the stock, manufacture or baking; it should not present the appearance of dried paste. If tough and pasty, it is probably manufacture from grown wheat, or Spring wheat of an inferior kind. In all cases it should be thoroughly cooled and dried before packing. Kiln drying, where practicable, for long voyages, is particularly desirable; but if really and thoroughly dried in the oven, hard bread will keep just as well and its flavor is not destroyed. To make good hard bread, it is essential to employ steam; hand work will not do.”  Hard tack is NOT and never was a form of bannock or sourdough . BANNOCK(sourdough or baking powder)NEVER WAS AN UNLEAVENED FORM OF BREAD  Hardtack, or the other hand, is never, was never, leavened .

Actually, hard tack antedates other forms of bread by several ages of man; it must have been Neanderthal man who first patted meal and water into a thin cake and broiled or roasted it on a flat stone near his fire. 

Bannock on the other hand (the name first appears in 1572 Scotland), is a leavened communal LOAF OF BREAD. Bannock is not cut into scones, which, not being a loaf, are considered to be an entirely different product.

Sourdough was undoubtedly the second form of bread-discovered by man-after he discovered wheat.

1 lb. flour

1/2 tsp. salt

      Water

Mix salt and flour, then add water slowly until a very stiff dough is formed. Roll on a floured board, until about a half inch thick. Cut into squares or rounds with a cookie cutter or an opened tin can, prick surface with a fork and bake in a hot oven until golden brown. Then bake it three more times, until every bit of moisture has been removed. Hard-tack is almost as hard as iron and could be used in ship's canons as grape shot. When stored in a dry place, hard tack will keep indefinitely and is not as susceptible to insect, or rat, infestation as is flour.

The Heart of the Sourdough There where the mighty mountains bare their fangs unto the moon, There where the sullen sun-dogs glare in the snow-bright, bitter noon, And the glacier-glutted streams sweep down at the clarion call of June. There where the livid tundras keep their tryst with the tranquil snows; There where the silences are spawned, and the light of hell-fire flows Into the bowl of the midnight sky, violet, amber and rose. There where the rapids churn and roar, and the ice-floes bellowing run; Where the tortured, twisted rivers of blood rush to the setting sun -- I've packed my kit and I'm going, boys, ere another day is done. * * * * * I knew it would call, or soon or late, as it calls the whirring wings; It's the olden lure, it's the golden lure, it's the lure of the timeless things, And to-night, oh, God of the trails untrod, how it whines in my heart-strings! I'm sick to death of your well-groomed gods, your make believe and your     show; I long for a whiff of bacon and beans, a snug shakedown in the snow; A trail to break, and a life at stake, and another bout with the foe. With the raw-ribbed Wild that abhors all life, the Wild that would crush and rend, I have clinched and closed with the naked North, I have learned to defy and defend; Shoulder to shoulder we have fought it out -- yet the Wild must win in the end. I have flouted the Wild. I have followed its lure, fearless, familiar, alone; By all that the battle means and makes I claim that land for mine own; Yet the Wild must win, and a day will come when I shall be overthrown. Then when as wolf-dogs fight we've fought, the lean wolf-land and I; Fought and bled till the snows are red under the reeling sky; Even as lean wolf-dog goes down will I go down and die. ©Al (Alex, Alexander) D Girvan, 1995, all rights reserved.

SEE ALSO THE STORY OF BANNOCK, BANNOCK AND SOURDOUGH RECIPES IN A NEWER POSTINGS.