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.
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.
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| My Bubbies, Bela and Dora |
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.
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.
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| Sneaking a bite of the dough |
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.
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.
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| Prepping the dough |
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.
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| Best baking assistants |
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.
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