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At Beer and Iron, we’re here to rescue comfort food from the ordinary – armed with a trusty cast iron pot, a bottle of beer, and a whole lot of rustic charm. We blend bold flavors, real-life stories, and a dash of kitchen mischief to serve up meals that are as fun to make as they are to eat. We’ll bring honest cooking, hearty laughs, and recipes that’ll have you saying, “I can totally make that!” Whether you’re cooking over a campfire or your kitchen stove, we’re all about turning everyday meals into legendary bites, with a little help from our favorite brew and the timeless magic of cast iron.
This is the spirit of Beer and Iron (pun intended).
Adding beer to a recipe brings a host of culinary perks – it boosts flavor, improves texture, and adds an inviting aroma, all thanks to beer’s unique blend of alcohol, water, sugars, acids, and those signature bitter notes. Honestly, it’s the secret ingredient that’ll have your meal brewing with deliciousness!
Beer and Iron moves past the traditional Irish Beef and Guinness Stew. We’ll transform all kinds of dishes with beer as an ingredient to bring out those bold flavors, tender textures, and just add a little palate pleasing magic to each bite. Whether it’s a splash of a smooth porter in your stew, a dash of bock in your bread, or a generous pour of marzen in your marinade, beer’s unique mix of ingredients works wonders beyond what you’d expect. So, get ready to see your favorite comfort foods take on new life, all thanks to a humble bottle of brew and the magic of your trusty cast iron pot.
Beer and Iron Podcast – Episode 1 – Why I Fell in Love with Cast Iron
Welcome to Beer and Iron—where we talk about real cast iron cooking and share recipes with beer as an ingredient.
Grab a beer, set that cast iron on the heat, and prepare to flip your expectations—we’re serving up tales and recipes that are well-seasoned and never half-baked. This is where the good stories live.
I’m Sulae—Brew and Stew Maestro—here to share a story, cook something worth eating, and bring the yum back to your plate.
The Pour & The Preheat
Whenever I reach for my cast iron skillet, I hear Granddaddy’s words: “Sulae, you’ll be cooking with these long after I am gone and in the ground.” Back then, I had no idea how much that gift would come to mean. It wasn’t just a set of skillets—it was the beginning of a legacy meant to outlast even him.
Granddaddy and Grandma Ellamae lived on a farm in Franklin Parish, Louisiana. After Grandma Ellamae had been cared for at the home, Granddaddy—now alone—would call me up, not to ask outright for a visit, but with a gentle nudge. “Figs are in on the tree; you’d better get you some before the birds do,” or “The brat is full of sweet ’taters—come get you a box before they’re all gone.” A day or two later, I’d drive out, and we’d sit in the shade with iced tea, talking about the way things were and how they ought to be.
Those visits became cherished memories, and as I grew older and moved into my first apartment, Granddaddy found ways to stay connected. He’d call and ask, “Sulae, when’s the next time you’ll be in Wisner? There’s something I want to give you.” During our visit later that afternoon, he insisted I take a few odds and ends he’d gathered. Before I left, he disappeared inside and returned with a new—but opened—box labeled: “Wagner’s 1891 Original Cast Iron Cookware. 3-Piece Natural Skillet Set.” He handed it to me with a certain gravity. “Sulae, you’ll be cooking with these long after I am gone and in the ground.” These skillets weren’t just something he had laying around that he’d hoped I’d find a use for. This was different. Even so, time moved on, life got busy, and those skillets stayed tucked away and out of sight. Truth be told, they sat in that box for years—until the evening of Granddaddy’s funeral.
That night after the funeral, I finally pulled them out. Inside and between the number 5 and 8 skillets was a piece of tablet paper with his cornbread recipe written on it and in his handwriting. Finding that recipe brought back a flood of memories from my childhood and even as a younger adult. Granddaddy and Grandma Ellamae would do a little pre-dinner dance in the kitchen as they finished up the meal they would prepare for us. Grandma Ellamae was the cook in their home…and cook she could. But Granddaddy was the cornbread guy. Grandma Ellamae would be cooking a meal and know just when to let Granddaddy know, “Clayton, it’s time for the cornbread.” She knew just how long it’d take for that cornbread to be table-ready, and timed her cornbread call so the meal came out hot and ready all at the same time.
I’d made cornbread before in those standard 9x13 inch pans where you’d end up cutting squares rather than wedges. Back then, I’d have to apologize when I served my different versions, “it’s cornbread but it ain’t Granddaddy’s cornbread.” His was a simple recipe but the way he’d create it…mmmm… This cornbread recipe was almost Granddaddy’s bespoke family recipe not only by the ingredients but also the technique he’d use to create it.
As I mixed the batter and poured it into the skillet, I realized I wasn’t just making cornbread—I was reaching back to that old farmhouse kitchen, and that call, “Clayton, it’s time for the cornbread.”
Isn’t it amazing how a familiar scent from the kitchen can sweep you back through the years—almost like the aroma of a cooking meal stirs stories long tucked away and seemingly forgotten.
That cornbread was amazing. It had everything I remembered: flavor, texture, and…spiritually speaking…a certain warmth—more than the temperature of the cornbread. It had everything…except one thing…Granddaddy.
Since then, those skillets became a fixture in my kitchen. During those earlier years, a new or used piece of cast iron often made its way into my kitchen. Slowly, over those same years, other pieces of cookware, stainless, aluminum, and even glass cookware found their way out by means of secondhand stores, garage sales, or even the recycle bin.
Every batch of cornbread cooked in those cast iron skillets is a quiet tribute to Granddaddy’s legacy and the simple rituals that…well…keep those family memories shimmering in the warmth of tradition…yes…tradition…after all, tradition is not about grand gestures. Sometimes it’s the countertop presence of a well-used, well-seasoned skillet and the stories that rise with the steam from a fresh pan of cornbread.
Now, so many years later, Granddaddy’s great grandson…my son…enjoys his cornbread. To me, this recipe was one of those ways I’ve kept my family memories close, one supper at a time. And now, I’d like to share it with you.
The Main Braise
Step-by-step recipe deep-dive.
First. You’ve got to start with a hot cast iron skillet. This recipe fits nice and fine in a 10.25 inch skillet…your number 8 skillet. Take two tablespoons…or maybe a little more…of butter and place it in that skillet.
Butter my friends…butter. We’re making cornbread. Butter is the key to both flavor and will all but guarantee that cornbread just pops out of that skillet when we ask it to. Bacon grease, olive oil, or any number of other oils…nope…first, it’ll taste funny. Second, you’ll end up having to soak that pan later to get them broken pieces of cornbread to let loose of the bottom of your number 8, I tell you what.
Slide that skillet into the oven and preheat the oven to a hot 425°F or 215°C temperature. Let it preheat while you mix your ingredients. We want a wicked hot skillet. Later, when that cornbread batter sizzles and froths up along the edges after it hits the browning and toasted butter, you’ll know you’re doing it right. I want the cornbread batter to hit that hot butter and start cooking before it finds its way to the surface of that cast iron skillet.
Granddaddy would always set out two medium bowls, a Foley Fork, a 1 cup measuring cup, and a teaspoon measuring spoon to get things ready.
I use a rubber or silicone spatula instead of a Foley Fork for my mixing and pouring…cause I ain’t got a foley fork either. That spatula will work great as a squeegee to get all the batter out of the bowl and into that skillet.
Mix the dry ingredients first and then the wet ingredients. That baking powder will start its magic as soon as the wet ingredients are added. I want that process to wait until I have a hot and ready skillet.
Don’t add oil to the cornbread ingredients directly. Granddaddy always believed in butter, and plenty of it. He’d drop a generous ‘grandma’s measure’ (at least two tablespoons) right into the skillet while it preheated. Well, maybe it was more of a ‘Granddaddy’s measure,’ since Grandma Ellamae watched his waistline and never measured anything—especially butter—with a light hand.
He’d add the butter in two or three chunks that would hit the bottom of the cast iron skillet with that familiar thud. The order of sounds became so familiar…the butter chunks hitting the bottom of the skillet, the oven door opening with that old spring sound, the skillet sliding onto and along the oven racks, and the door shutting.
Placing the butter in the pan will create both flavor and a cornbread crust to die for…that butter will find its way into that batter, don’t you worry none…it’ll also help the cooked cornbread to just pop out of that skillet.
Here’s a list of dry ingredients:
1 cup of cornmeal
1 cup of all-purpose flour
4 teaspoons of baking powder
1 teaspoon of salt
Mix that all around and have it ready for the wet ingredients you’ll mix next.
Set out the 1 cup measuring cup and fill it halfway, ½ cup, with beer. Yes. Beer. Granddaddy wasn’t a beer-drinker…not much anyway…but he’d keep a few beers around for his cornbread.
If you’re anything like me, when you’re cooking a meal, you’re already drinking a glass of beer…just pour about ½ cup of that beer in the one cup measuring cup. You’ve already taken a sip? Ahhh…no worries…this is an excuse for a second. But, if you’re already on your second, you’d better just use some of what you’re sippin’. Shhhhh, no one will know…we’re about to cook it at 425°F. That’s two degrees hotter than hell. It’ll be okay.
However, if you’re making this cornbread for an after-the-sermon church social or a Dutch oven gathering, you better open a new beer…cause I may be a fellow congregant about to enjoy your cornbread at the monthly after-church potluck…but then again…there are those congregations known as “one cuppers.” So…I guess it’s all good. No worries.
Okay Sulae…half cup of beer…got it! But what kind of beer? I knew you’d ask.
Use an easy drinking lager or other low IBU beer. IBU…what is IBU? IBU stands for International Bitterness Unit (a beer measurement for hop bitterness). How bitter is your beer? That question could also be answered by asking, “how hoppy is your beer?”
Bitter beer…think IPA.
It’s better to use a mild drinking, less-hoppy lager similar to Budweiser, Corona, or Modelo. Not that these are suggestions, but most craft beer drinkers have enjoyed a tall Rainier Lager or a can of PBR at some point in their beer-drinking careers. Anything similar to these types of beers will work…including a Corona, Modelo, or a nice Rainier Lager.
Top off the 1 cup measuring cup with ½ cup of milk or half-and-half. I prefer half-and-half. We love coffee, enjoy half-and-half in our coffee, and have the stuff always on hand.
Buttermilk or even expired milk is an option too. But careful on the expired milk and use your good judgment. We consider food expiration dates as sort of a suggestion. In Granddaddy’s time, families planned meals around the milkman's schedule. Momma used to reminisce about the clinking sound of the glass milk bottles at dawn.
Milk’s perishability reinforced its image as a fresh, wholesome staple, tied to the rhythm of everyday life. But don’t think for a moment that turned milk was tossed. No, sir. No, ma’am. That stuff is great in recipes like biscuits and even Granddaddy’s cornbread…so Momma would say.
Dairy options have different consistencies. Truth be told, there’s more water in cabbage than a glass of milk. Keep that dairy choice or a little extra beer nearby in case you need to add some if the batter gets too thick. If you’re using buttermilk, it’s all but guaranteed you’ll need to add more and even a fourth or more of a cup.
Basically, we’re at a cup (or more) of a combination of dairy and beer, or just a cup of dairy if you’re looking for the dry version of Granddaddy’s cornbread. No. The cornbread won’t be dry…nope…not at all. Dry? Think Dry County. Yeah. You get it now…you’re my people.
Add 1 egg to the wet ingredients. I sometimes will add two eggs. Two eggs will create a smoother, thinner batter with a cornbread having a cake-like consistency…without the cake-like sweetness from boxed cornbread wannabes.
Blend the egg in with the dairy and the beer.
Check on your cast iron skillet and butter. Don’t let that butter burn. It’ll be okay if it gets toasty…that’s just how we want it. Expect some solid parts and pieces from that butter in there, real butter ain’t like Crisco.
Once that cast iron skillet is wicked hot and ready but still in the oven, mix the wet ingredients with the dry ingredients. Use the rubber spatula to really mix the ingredients well. Be sure to get to the bottom of it so there’s no powdery ingredients that surprise you when you pour this into that hot skillet.
If the ingredients are a bit too thick…more likely the case than too thin…add a bit more beer or dairy to thin it down. I said that already, yeah?
Just add a little. And then a little more if you need to. Easy does it.
Cornbread batter should be thick but pourable—similar to a hearty pancake batter. When you mix the dry and wet ingredients, the batter should hold its shape but still spread out easily on its own when poured into a hot skillet. If it’s thick and doughy, add a splash of milk, cream, or beer to loosen it up. If it’s too thin and runny, add a bit more cornmeal or flour.
Grab that skillet out of the oven with a mitt or handle holder and set it on the stovetop. Immediately pour that batter into that hot pan. It should sizzle or foam up a bit at the edges. Use that rubber spatula to squeegee out every bit of that batter. Hum. Can I use squeegee as a verb? I guess I can.
If you’re spreading a thick batter, just spread that batter evenly to the skillet. If it’s just right, give that skillet a bit of a shake to even the batter out.
Now, back in the hot oven.
Bake the cornbread for about 20-25 minutes. When you get the hang of making Granddaddy’s cornbread, you’ll just know when it’s ready. Until then, you could use the old toothpick test in the center to make sure.
Once the cornbread is baked, pull it out and set it aside to cool for a bit. Don’t try to toss it out of that pan yet. It’s hot and expanded. Wait a bit and let it cool. That cornbread will pull back from that skillet in a bit. You’ll likely start seeing space between the cornbread’s crust and the cast iron skillet’s edge as it cools. When Granddaddy’s cornbread came out of the oven and he set it over on the wooden cutting board to cool, Grandma Ellamae would know it’s time to pour the tea. By the time the table was set, she’d flip that cornbread out and set it there for everyone to cut a wedge.
You could just slice it right out of the skillet. Me? Nah. I ain’t doin’ that. It’ll make score marks in your skillet’s seasoning. Best to take a plate or a drying rack and lay it over the top of that skillet and over the cornbread. Using an oven mitt, turn the two together to flip the cornbread out.
The under crust, now on top, should be darker and crispier than the top…now on the bottom. It’ll cut easier upside down. Trust me on this one.
Me? I like to bite the pieces crust side down to really get the buttery cornbread flavor. There’s something about corn and butter…buttered movie popcorn…buttered corn on the cob. Yes! There’s something about the flavors of corn and butter that really work together.
My love for cast iron today stemmed from those three cast iron skillets and that cornbread recipe. At the time, I’d never even thought about buying cast iron cookware. And cooking with cast iron…I didn’t have the faintest idea of what to do. The good Lord Himself could have handed down an 11th commandment and it’d been like asking a squirrel to do algebra…I didn’t have the foggiest notion where to start…until I found that recipe on that piece of tablet paper with his cornbread recipe
I’d made different versions of cornbread plenty of times before, but there was nothing quite like Granddaddy’s cornbread baked in a cast iron skillet. It felt like stumbling upon a secret stash of bacon at a vegetarian potluck—or maybe like discovering fire, even though everyone else was already roasting marshmallows. Sure, I knew cast iron; all my grandparents used it. But back then, I thought those heavy pans were just for old folks. Funny how perspective changes. Looking back now that I’m the same age they were when I thought they were “old folks,” I understand their love for cast iron and their resisting that new stuff.
If you’re my age, you’ll understand. And if you’re younger, well, your time’s coming sooner than you think…if you’re lucky. Trust me on that one.
Those three cast iron skillets from granddaddy, finding that recipe after his funeral, and the flavor and texture of that first batch of cornbread started this whole thing…it’s the reason I have two closets full of cast iron pots and pans and why my house leans a little bit in that direction. It’s the reason I am so easy to buy Christmas and birthday presents for. It’s the reason I fell in love with cast iron and have since discovered that some of the best memories are captured on a piece of tablet paper, handed down, seasoned with love, and shared around the table, one supper at a time.
Over the years I’ve noticed that most cornbread recipes are similar in their making. Some add sugar while others add oil to the batter. I’ve found recipes that sorta mimic Granddaddy’s cornbread. Yeah…like the wheel…there’s so many other great cast iron chefs out there that have created their own version of cornbread…and that’s okay. Maybe to them this recipe will taste the same…maybe so. But, for me…the secret ingredient in this recipe that makes it so much more delicious is the memory of Granddaddy and me, sitting in the shade with iced tea, talking about the way things were and how they ought to be.
The Clean & The Close
And there you go! Granddaddy’s cornbread recipe is yours to try and enjoy.
Craving more cast iron creations? Swing by BeerandIron.com to print Granddaddy’s Cornbread recipe and discover an extensive tap list of other recipes—some with video walkthroughs to make your next meal a hit.
Until we gather again, keep your skillet hot and your stories on tap.
Now, y’all don’t be strangers—let me know how yours turns out at beerandiron.com, and join the conversation. Remember: at beer and iron, there’s always room for one more at our table.
Until next time, keep the tradition sizzling and the stories pouring—we’ll see y’all next time on beerandiron.com.