The regional table / Wyoming
Chuckwagon Sourdough Biscuits
A cowboy carried his leaven in a bottle, and what was in the bottle has since been named, counted and published by the Department of Agriculture.
Philip Ashton Rollins, writing in 1922 in The Cowboy, lists what a man tied behind his saddle for a night out on the range: "a frying-pan, some flour, bacon, coffee, salt, and, as a substitute for yeast, either a bottle of sour dough or a can of baking-powder." That is the whole argument of this recipe in one line. Sour dough was not a style or a flavour, it was the leaven you could keep alive without a shop, and its rival was a tin. Rollins goes on to describe the one-man bake — batter spread thinly in the pan, the pan laid on hot coals until a lower crust formed, then tipped on edge and held back from the fire so the loaf could rise before it was pushed close again to brown. A chuckwagon cook with a Dutch oven worked the same principle with more control and a lid. One caution about the word: it appears nowhere in The Trail Drivers of Texas, the 1920 collection of first-hand trail memoirs compiled by J. Marvin Hunter, a book that talks about beans, bacon and coffee at length and never once about sour dough. The thing is documented. The romance around the word is younger than the thing.
What is in the bottle is not folklore either. Harry Snyder's report for the USDA Office of Experiment Stations, Bulletin No. 67, Studies on Bread and Bread Making, printed in Washington in 1899, measured it: dough raised by the short-fermentation process ran between 0.3 and 0.4 per cent acidity calculated as lactic acid, while "in sour dough, the acidity was about 0.5 per cent." Seventy years later a federal laboratory named the organisms. Working at the Western Regional Research Laboratory of the U.S. Department of Agriculture at Albany, California, T. F. Sugihara, Leo Kline and M. W. Miller screened two hundred yeast isolates from sour dough bakeries and reported that "no bakers' yeast types were found"; the yeast was Saccharomyces exiguus, unable to use maltose, and its "vigor in the particular acidic environment of the sour dough" was what made it the leavener. Kline and Sugihara's companion paper isolated the souring bacteria, which turned out to require maltose at a high level and to produce "lactic and acetic acids with the latter varying from 3 to 26% of the total." So the pair are not competitors: the bacteria eat the sugar the yeast cannot, the yeast lifts the dough in an acid the bacteria make, and the ratio of the two acids is what decides whether your biscuits taste faintly tangy or like vinegar.
Why this version works
Crowded pan, hot oven. Set the biscuits so their sides touch. Their edges then support each other and the only way left to expand is up. A 450°F oven sets the outside before the gas has finished escaping — at 375°F the same dough spreads into pale discs.
Cold fat, barely worked in. Six tablespoons of lard, bacon fat or butter, cut into the flour in pieces the size of peas and no smaller. Those pieces melt in the oven and leave flat pockets of steam behind them, which is where the layers come from. Work them to crumbs and you get a scone.
Soda is the second leaven, not a shortcut. The 1916 Manual for Army Cooks defines bicarbonate of soda in one clause that explains this whole recipe: "sometimes used to neutralize acids found in sour dough." Neutralising an acid with a carbonate makes carbon dioxide, so the same teaspoon that takes the sourness down inflates the biscuit on its way through. This is why the soda goes in at the last moment — the reaction starts the instant it hits the wet sponge and does not wait for the oven.
The overnight sponge does two jobs at once. It makes gas and it makes acid, and the second matters more here. Snyder measured what the acid then does to the flour: an acid of 0.55 per cent, matching what he found in sour dough, dissolved 1.12 per cent of the flour's nitrogen — it takes gluten apart. A biscuit wants exactly that. Bread flour kneaded hard gives you a chewy biscuit; a long acid fermentation gives you a short, tender one without any kneading at all.