"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!

 

An Apple A Day...

   

  There’s a great show on the Cooking Channel called My Grandmother’s Ravioli, hosted by Mo Rocca. The basic premise of the show involves Mo visiting grandmothers around the country and learning how to cook their specialties. In his travels, he learns much more than the recipes for their food. He learns about their culture, family, and life experience.

   The first time I saw the show, I couldn’t help thinking about my husband’s Grandma Ida. She would have been the perfect candidate for a show like that.

   I actually met Grandma Ida long before I knew my husband. A girl in my dorm was her niece, and Ida would pick her up for dinner on Sunday nights. Picture the good fairies in Cinderella; that’s Grandma Ida. Short and fluffy with a sweet face and kind demeanor, she would even ask us to join them for dinner, knowing ,we too, were from out of town.

   When I started dating my husband, she was the first to ply me with food. Her baked goods were incredible, but she was best known for her apple strudel. She decided I needed to carry on the recipe and arranged a day to teach me (probably the most impatient person in the kitchen) and my best friend , Nadine (definitely more suited to the task) the secret to making her amazing strudel.

She began by placing a clean white cloth on the table and covering it with flour. I wasn’t aware that the weather and humidity affected the outcome of the dough, but the flour was to absorb any excess moisture while we were kneading the dough. After punching and pounding the yeast-risen dough over and over, we gave it one more rest before beginning the process.

   A cup of tea was poured and she had to sit down because the punching and kneading was wearing her out. She needed her energy for the next step, and I soon understood why.

    As I waited for her to throw the risen dough on the table to flatten out with a rolling pin, she took her little chubby fingers and began to stretch the dough like a salt- water taffy machine. Her arm span couldn’t have been any more than four feet, but she worked the dough like a pro. Pulling it and stretching it until the layers were almost transparent, she explained that a rolling pin could never give her the texture she wanted. Stretching the dough was the secret to her flaky crust. Grandma gave Nadine a try and she was pretty successful, but when it was my turn, the dough ripped apart in my hands.

   Patient and kind, Grandma Ida blamed the humidity for my obvious lacked of finesse in the baking department. She softly helped pull the dough and had me lay it on the table. “We’ll let you put the filling on the layers once it’s all stretched out,” was her sweet way of saying, “I’ll do this!”

   In a way, I think she enjoyed being the only one who could make the strudel. Years later, my brother-in-law was able to get close, but he used a pre-made phyllo dough and never dared to compare it to hers. My friend Nadine is a caterer now, so it's possible that she could pull it off.

   But even today, 35 years later, I think of Grandma Ida when I eat anyone’s strudel and wonder if she’s watching.  If so, she knows that no one has even come close to hers and I’m sure that makes her smile.