This is going to be photo-heavy because this bread dough was technically a Transformer: Breadbot in Disguise. Like top-heavy but the photos are of bread and not tits. Hate to disappoint. In any case, this is new from Pillsbury's Simply... line. Yes, the ellipses are mandatory. A lot of pondering went into my head when I heard this name. Simply what? A hearkening back to the simple, rustic days of living? A command to simplify our lifestyles? Nudist beaches? Ball-scratching? All of those things are simply delightful, so I was pleased to try a product that I could rank up next to some of my favorite simple pleasures- eating and sex.
The bread performed up to my expectations. Granted, I had steeled them reasonably low as this was, after all, a canned bread, albeit one that simplified (see what I did there?) the ingredient list, even going as far as to gently tell us that xanthan gum is nothing more than a "natural carbohydrate." Granted, it is, but it's still a food additive meant to catalyze something that does not naturally occur in food. It's tantamount to calling polylysine "nature's refrigerator." It both patronizes and minimizes the concern as a whole. But the bread, with all its flaws, was not a bad bread. Appearance-wise, it was attractive and rustic looking with a pleasant, browned exterior with only a slightly can-like shape from the package.
That browning, by the way, was awfully hard to create and was the product of rotating the bread in the oven halfway through. No joke. They don't mention it on the instructions, but this browns rather unevenly. If I'd left it prostrate in the oven, it would have come out with a tanned top and a fleshy bottom, desirable in neither chicks nor pastries. As it was, I paid careful attention to it and proudly extracted a crusty loaf upon completion. The floured surface was a nice touch and with the artistic slashes I'd added before, (I didn't want to get too crazy) made it look almost homemade. Almost.
That "almost" was belied in the texture of the bread. When I cut into it, the knife sank through easily. The texture was singular throughout the loaf. The crust definition was poor and seemed as though it was more of an extension of the fluffy middle itself, thus lumping it into the ignoble categorization of things like fake grill marks on meat. It was neither crispy nor chewy, falling flatly in between to resemble a light toast than anything else. The flavor was what would make me purchase this again, albeit on restricted terms. It just didn't taste like canned bread and it didn't have that wonky pre-portioned touch that most do. It was a wholesome, airy flavor with a hint of sweetness that brought out the honeyed coating I later doused it with- and accentuated the savory sandwich, a delicious mock Monte Cristo, that I had for lunch. Shot glasses. I'm just really big on shot glasses right now.
My other big complaint with this would be the portioning. One package makes a ten inch loaf roughly the length and girth of a freakishly elephantine peni- er, roughly the length and girth of a Subway sandwich loaf. One person can eat that in a sitting. That's not going to feed a hungry family of four unless you're cutting tiny slices. I was able to cut eight good-sized slices from the loaf, including the bitch corners that nobody wants to eat. That might make a sufficient side dish with pasta, but for anything or anyone larger than the American standardized family set (batteries not included) it's a little restrictive.
Homemade bread takes about three hours to make, and most of that is letting it rise while you do other things. If I was pressed and had only twenty minutes, thirty if you count going to the grocery store, to prepare a baked good and had no time to bother with measurements and shit (that's for pussies) I'd probably go for this. Despite the bullshitting with the ingredients, it was wholesome and tasty, and even if people did rag on me for buying it from a can, I could then counteract with a comment about how their twenty minute Robert Irvine-esque warnings for dinner parties sucked anyway. I can't wait to see how this turns out tomorrow as a giant sandwich. In conclusion, this is not better than sex. Unless it's really boring sex, and in that case, maybe.
The bread performed up to my expectations. Granted, I had steeled them reasonably low as this was, after all, a canned bread, albeit one that simplified (see what I did there?) the ingredient list, even going as far as to gently tell us that xanthan gum is nothing more than a "natural carbohydrate." Granted, it is, but it's still a food additive meant to catalyze something that does not naturally occur in food. It's tantamount to calling polylysine "nature's refrigerator." It both patronizes and minimizes the concern as a whole. But the bread, with all its flaws, was not a bad bread. Appearance-wise, it was attractive and rustic looking with a pleasant, browned exterior with only a slightly can-like shape from the package.
That browning, by the way, was awfully hard to create and was the product of rotating the bread in the oven halfway through. No joke. They don't mention it on the instructions, but this browns rather unevenly. If I'd left it prostrate in the oven, it would have come out with a tanned top and a fleshy bottom, desirable in neither chicks nor pastries. As it was, I paid careful attention to it and proudly extracted a crusty loaf upon completion. The floured surface was a nice touch and with the artistic slashes I'd added before, (I didn't want to get too crazy) made it look almost homemade. Almost.
That "almost" was belied in the texture of the bread. When I cut into it, the knife sank through easily. The texture was singular throughout the loaf. The crust definition was poor and seemed as though it was more of an extension of the fluffy middle itself, thus lumping it into the ignoble categorization of things like fake grill marks on meat. It was neither crispy nor chewy, falling flatly in between to resemble a light toast than anything else. The flavor was what would make me purchase this again, albeit on restricted terms. It just didn't taste like canned bread and it didn't have that wonky pre-portioned touch that most do. It was a wholesome, airy flavor with a hint of sweetness that brought out the honeyed coating I later doused it with- and accentuated the savory sandwich, a delicious mock Monte Cristo, that I had for lunch. Shot glasses. I'm just really big on shot glasses right now.
My other big complaint with this would be the portioning. One package makes a ten inch loaf roughly the length and girth of a freakishly elephantine peni- er, roughly the length and girth of a Subway sandwich loaf. One person can eat that in a sitting. That's not going to feed a hungry family of four unless you're cutting tiny slices. I was able to cut eight good-sized slices from the loaf, including the bitch corners that nobody wants to eat. That might make a sufficient side dish with pasta, but for anything or anyone larger than the American standardized family set (batteries not included) it's a little restrictive.
Homemade bread takes about three hours to make, and most of that is letting it rise while you do other things. If I was pressed and had only twenty minutes, thirty if you count going to the grocery store, to prepare a baked good and had no time to bother with measurements and shit (that's for pussies) I'd probably go for this. Despite the bullshitting with the ingredients, it was wholesome and tasty, and even if people did rag on me for buying it from a can, I could then counteract with a comment about how their twenty minute Robert Irvine-esque warnings for dinner parties sucked anyway. I can't wait to see how this turns out tomorrow as a giant sandwich. In conclusion, this is not better than sex. Unless it's really boring sex, and in that case, maybe.
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