Happy New Year!

I don’t know if it’s because we’ve been in and out of quarantine for so long, or if if it’s the longing for easier times, but I’ve been thinking about my childhood family traditions lately. Tomorrow is Rosh Hashonah, the beginning of the Jewish New Year, and I’ve been flooded with memories of the food and people I would see year after year. that That was the one day I saw ALL of my cousins, aunts, and uncles from my Dad’s side of the family.

A tradition begun by my Bubie’s (Yiddish from Grandma) sister, Tante Basha, carried on by my Bubie and then my mother, an open house was held on the first day of the holiday right after synagogue.

It was basically a time for everyone to relax and celebrate a new beginning, catch up with each other, and, most importantly, eat and drink!

I vividly remember the small apartment my Grandma lived in and how many people could actually fit in the place at one time. 

She would spend weeks preparing her sweet treats that we all expected on that day.

Crispy ginger cookies and light, lemony poppy seed cookies, (usually gone by the first hour) were replaced with her taigalech (a honey coated confection that could break your teeth in one bite),  and the best (as far as I’m concerned), her “World Renowned” cinnamon coffee cake.

There was always a huge urn of coffee that most coffee drinkers today would turn their noses up to, but somehow, everyone guzzled it down. 

Along with that, the “schnapps”, or whiskey, and overly sweet wine were there for the adults. 

We all ate to excess because we knew it would be whole year until we saw the treats again. I was always jealous of the fact that my cousin Marji could consume entire trays of brownies and taigelach and still not gain an ounce. 

Dressed in itchy wool clothes we had worn to synagogue (no matter what the temperature, the holidays always meant Fall, so wool it was), we ate our way through the afternoon.

There was always competition between the aunts and uncles, and I learned more about the real family situations from the stories my male cousins told about “life”. (Dale & Barry, you know what I’m talking about).

I never mastered any of the recipes, but my brother recently sent me his family’s version of the coffee cake.

I have yet to attempt it, but did actually make a small apple cake this year.

The holidays are a little different now with cousins in different parts of the country and virtual family gatherings and services, but I still can almost taste those yummy treats my Bubie used to make!

"Just Eat It...(PLEASE)"

Ryan and his Grandpa, Bob Becker

SUSAN KEMPPAINEN IS THE VOLUNTEER/ACTIVITY PROGRAM COORDINATOR MIROWITZ CENTER AT COVENANT PLACE. She sat in on my three part "Writing Your Own Family Food Fable" class and was inspired to write her own family story. If you have kids, you can definitely relate to this one. Thanks Susan for this great story.

Five decades ago, when preemie care was still new science, I was born at 30 weeks and weighed 3 lbs., 4 oz. My grandmother said she’d bought bigger chickens. Since I was an itty-bitty thing and a picky eater, everyone worried I’d starve to death. In kindergarten, my grandmother carried me to and home from the bus stop, so I wouldn’t burn more calories than absolutely necessary. Still, I managed to grow into a healthy adult and was raising children of my own, when karma gave me a picky eater too. Every day, I sent my son to preschool with a lunch of blueberries, cereal, and milk. I knew it wasn’t the best, but cereal is fortified, right? When I discussed my stressful situation with his preschool teacher, she admonished me with, "Well, Ryan is never going to try broccoli, if you let him eat sugary cereals." Maybe she was right, but I was scared if I didn’t send him with foods he’d eat, he wouldn't eat anything at all.

So, what's a neurotic, Jewish mother to do? I tried all the tricks. I cut turkey sandwiches into hearts, involved him in the preparation process, and created colorful and fun foods like “ants on a log.” I even resorted to bribery, which had limited success. Ryan did lick a piece of steak once to get an extra toy during Chanukah. In grade school, he still only ate the usual kid choices: fries, chicken nuggets, pizza, hot dogs, cereal, and pasta. Then, something miraculous happened... He became a teenager! A teenager who wanted to eat all the time. A teenager who was willing to try new foods. A teenager who, even when he didn’t like what he was eating, would shrug and say, “It’s just fuel.” Mamas, if you’re worried your child is going to starve to death, I’m here to tell you he won’t. Keep introducing healthy foods and snack choices, offer an occasional bribe, and remind yourself this too shall pass. After all, our kids won't be walking down the aisle to a wedding feast of buttered noodles. But if they do, be happy we can buy fortified pasta.

" DON’T NEED NO MEASURIN’ CUP! "

I had the great pleasure of teaching a series of writing  classes through the Mirowitz Center in St. Louis. "Writing Your Own Family Food Fable" generated so many great ideas and I will feature the stories for the next few weeks on the blog. This week, a great piece written by Marilyn Brown . She creatively wrote it as a letter to her granddaughter, telling the story of of what she learned from her own grandmother. Enjoy reading!!!!

Marilyn and her Bubbie

 

Dearest Hannah,

I bet you think you have to measure ingredients in order to be a good baker, right?  Well, let me tell you about your great-grandmother (Bubbe).

She wasn’t much of a cook, although she really tried.  All meat had to be well-done…cooked to a black, charred mass.  And, of course, without much taste.

But, oh my, could she bake!  And she baked by “feel” not with measuring spoons or measuring cups. 

This ability to feel the dough really came in handy when my mother lost her focal vision due to ARMD.  She couldn’t see very well at all, so I would actually measure ingredients for komish bread.  Then she would knead the batter and roll out the strips to make those yummy treats.  I am so grateful to have been able to share this baking experience with her up to the end of her life.  And I think of her whenever I smell komish bread baking in my oven.

Another story for you, Hannah…one day I decided I really had to have Bubbe’s recipe for apple strudel.  So, the two of us took out all the ingredients – apples, nuts, flour, sugar, cinnamon, graham crackers, etc.  And then she got to work.

I insisted that she measure everything, so I could write down amounts and be able to duplicate the tasty treat in my own kitchen.  All went well…at first.  Bubbe was busy making the dough, measuring the flour, etc., just as I had asked.  And then I looked up from my note pad and saw her throwing a handful of flour into the bowl.  “Wait!” I cried, “how much more flour did you just add????”  

“I don’t know,” she sighed, “but the dough just didn’t feel right.”  Oh, boy, I thought.  Then I, too, felt the dough for future reference.  And, dear Hannah, it worked.  I can now make my mother’s wonderful apple strudel.  And I will pass down the written recipe to you.  But we will have to make apple strudel…and komish bread…together someday soon, so you can learn what “professional” strudel dough and komish bread batter feels like. 

 

Bubbe’s unwritten apple strudel recipe:

To make dough, mix this stuff into some kind of bowl…

Quite a bit of flour

Some oil (anything other than motor oil!)

Warm water…about twice as much as the oil

A bissel vinegar

Knead until dough feels right.

 

Roll out a clump of dough until it’s pretty thin…round or oval in shape.  Sprinkle the following onto the dough:

White raisins…at least a box

Graham cracker crumbs

Nuts

Cinnamon and sugar

Oil…put this onto the dough first

 

Filling:

A bunch of large apples, grated…and peeled…and cored

Maybe a cup of brown sugar

More flour

A bit of lemon juice

Another box or so of white raisins

More graham cracker crumbs, cinnamon, nuts

 

Put some of the filling onto the end of a piece of dough…roll up.  Put roll onto a cookie sheet.  Brush with oil, and sprinkle with cinnamon and sugar.  Slit.

 

Bake in a warm oven until done.

Marilyn Brown

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Challah Back Girls..."

If you asked me to list my top 10 foods, bread would be number one on the list. Even on a low-carb eating plan, I'd gladly give up rice, potatoes and pasta for a slice of good bread. 

 This obsession began with my grandmothers' stellar baking skills. My grandma from Boston ((Bubbie Bela) would visit us for weeks at a time, spending most of it in our kitchen. Known for her challah bread, she'd set to work. Using every bowl, spoon, towel and counterspace, she took over the kitchen as her own private bakery. 

Knowing she wouldn't be back to visit for a while, she would bake enough to last us for months. With no electric mixer or dough hooks, her muscular arms and soft touch became her tools. 

Filling pans and bowls to let the mixture rise and braiding strands of dough to form the beautiful challah, the ballooning loaves were everywhere. She put the bowls on the bed and covered them with a quilt to help the rising process.The smell of the baking bread in our kitchen was intoxicating, and I always had a hard time waiting for it to cool from the oven. 

 And luckily for me, my other Grandma (Bubbie Dora) lived across the street from us. She too was an incredible baker, but her challah dough was turned into a sweet bread similar to cinnamon raisin bread that we all affectionately named "Bubbie's Coffee Cake". She would follow the same steps, letting the dough rise, punching it down, and then letting it rise again.

My Bubbies, Bela and Dora

The magic began as she rolled the dough with a rolling pin to the size of a sheet pan. The dough was slathered with butter, cinnamon, raisins and sugar. Gently lifting the side, she would roll it into a tube and let it rise once more. Again, waiting for it to finish baking was an eternity to me, made even more difficult by the scent of cinnamon wafting through the house. A slice of her challah coffee cake in the toaster the next day was pure heaven. 

Sadly, neither my mother nor I took the time to learn their skills or recipes, so store bought challah had to suffice. On Shabbat, my mom would get a challah at the local bakery and, though it was good, it never lived up to my Grandmas' creations.

Sneaking a bite of the dough

  So, when the pandemic hit and we were all stuck inside for months, my daughter-in-law wanted to continue the Shabbat traditions our granddaughters were learning in their pre-school classes. They always loved taking a piece of challah dough and kneading, pounding and rolling it out. The teacher would then bake the small loaf for each child to take home and share with their family. 

 Traci decided to try her hand at making the dough with the girls, continuing the tradition they were learning in school. 

At the time, much like toilet paper and hand sanitizer, flour and yeast were at a premium. But still, she managed to make the dough every week, even getting flour sent from out of town.

Prepping the dough

It became a wonderful tradition in their house that the girls looked forward to each Shabbat. While Traci made the larger loaf, each of the girls got her own piece of dough to form as they liked. Sometimes plain, sometimes adding raisins or chocolate chips (though they often popped them in their mouth instead of in the challah), each was a personal reflection of their own taste. 

They even have a special song they sing while working on their challahs together with each step of making the dough:

"We are pounding, pounding, pounding...

  We are rolling, rolling, rolling...

  We are squeezing, squeezing, squeezing...

  And then we...STOP"

We would often Zoom with them on Friday night to recite the blessing over the challah and wine with them. And every week the challahs became more and more beautiful: braided six strands and even eight or ten strands; glazed with egg and honey, it looked so delicious. When we finally were able to go up and visit them, I couldn’t wait to taste the finished product. 

 

Best baking assistants

And boy was it worth the wait. The bread, fresh, warm and dense with the sweet honey glaze made my mouth water. The smell of the kitchen brought me right back to the days with my Grandmas. I ate slice after slice the whole weekend and couldn’t wait until our next visit for more. 

I may not have learned the baking skills that my grandmothers' so well honed, but it makes me so happy to see a new tradition of baking and celebrating taking its place in our family.

Shabbat Shalom!