"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!

 

"Love You a Latke"

Mom enjoying her latkes

I recently went through some old family videos of our holiday celebrations over the years. I always find watching the chaos and commotion of the kids so much fun. The piles of presents and the hours spent watching everyone open their gifts seemed exhausting at the time, but what I loved even more was our family tradition of making and eating potato latkes! A small batch of the potato goodies turned into platters and platters of the fried deliciousness! There was always plenty left for both me and my         brother and we usually kept eating them until we couldn’t move

Latkes are traditionally cooked on Hanukkah, along with other fried foods, to commemorate the miracle of the menorah oil lasting eight days in the Jewish Temple.

In my family, we had a tradition of making latkes and having a huge family Hanukah party every year. I loved all of the food and the presents, and I just recently found out how this tradition began.

Apparently, two of my Bubie's (yiddish for grandmother) brothers had been drafted into the Russian army and sent to opposite sides of the country to fight. Their family, who lived in the town of Belarus, figured they would never see them again because of the hardships of the war and the landscape of Russia. By coincidence, both of her brothers arrived home on the 5th night of Hanukkah, surprising everyone. They had a huge celebration cooking up latkes and trading gifts together. Since then, the tradition has been carried on every year in our families!  

Latkes can be topped with most anything, but our condiments of choice were sour cream and applesauce. (As a kid, I wouldn’t let the applesauce touch the sour cream, but love it all mixed together now).

When our son was born, my husband decided to carry on the latke-making tradition in our family. With our then 6 month old in the kitchen playpen, Jack instructed him on the step-by- step process, and has made latkes every Hanukah since.

Latke maker extrodinaire

All ready to help make the latkes

It’s a tradition that makes us feel close to family, even though we live in different places around the country and around the world.

This year was no different. But having moved from our house to a smaller place, we had trouble finding all of our typical “tools” of the trade. (because when you make latkes, the whole neighborhood knows from the smell).  The cookbook with our dog-eared latke recipe was stuffed in a box in our storage closet, but we finally dug it out. Making them fresh is the only way to go!

Some years we shred the potatoes; some years we chop them. More egg, less flour. More salt, less pepper. Fewer people, but we did our part eating the latkes. 

Still has the seal of approval

We all live in different cities and even different countries, but the latkes always connect us. 
Carrying on a tradition that takes me back to my childhood, I love that our kids and now our grandaughters are still eating the crunchy potato latkes and in some way, honoring their ancestors from 100 years ago in the process.

"Mickey Mornings.."

Breakfast has always been one of my favorite meals.

Honestly, I could eat breakfast food for lunch and dinner as well. But when my kids were growing up, it was always a rush in the morning to get ready for work and school. Consequently, during the week, it was usually cereal or a Pop-tart as we ran out the door.

They DID love frozen waffles though, so one day while wandering around a cooking store, I saw a magical piece of cooking equipment stashed behind all of the professional pots and pans.

The familiar Disney face stared at me from the front of the box, begging me to pick it up. Reading the contents, I discovered I could make waffles that looked like Mickey Mouse in a non-stick, virtually foolproof waffle maker. No special mixes. 3-4 minutes per waffle. How could I resist the chance to so easily impress my kids?

So Mickey came home with me and the waffles became the “special” breakfast I would make for them when they had friends sleep over and on holidays. We’d put all kinds of toppings on the table and the kids would decorate their waffle with raisins, chocolate chips, berries, orange slices, whipped cream and fill in the crevices with the extras! (But of course, everyone always wanted to eat the ears first).

It became a tradition, and if I mistakenly put a box of cereal out on a sleepover weekend, you can bet they made sure I had that waffle maker out within a few minutes. Even throughout high school and when they came home from college, I would make the waffles for a special breakfast or just for fun!

I found the appliance in my cabinet last year when we were packing up and getting ready to move out of our house. Having been ruthless about getting rid of kitchen things I no longer used, I just couldn’t let go of Mickey. There was still a “need”, so he came with us to our new place.

I now have a 10 month-old granddaughter and she’s staring to eat “real” food. So, when they came to visit over the holidays, I couldn't wait to make the Mickey Mouse waffles. I was so excited to see her eat the little bits of waffle and smile.  I’m pretty sure she liked them, and my adult kids really enjoyed the memories that eating them brought back.

Since then, she’s even had a Mickey shaped pizza! (Genius idea!)

They’re heading to Disney World soon and I know seeing the "real" Mickey will put a smile on her face. 
Just as long as she doesn’t try to eat his ear!

"Your Mother Should Know..."

   

As I’ve said in previous posts, food and love often go hand in hand. This is especially true when we think of how our moms showed their love as we were growing up.

   I hear amazing stories of Sunday night spaghetti dinners with homemade sauce and pasta. Cake baked from scratch with special icings and fillings. Bread and pies sitting on the window-sill cooling; fragrant aromas wafting outside the house. Special dishes that are remembered forever. But my food memories are a little bit different.

   My mom is an amazing woman, but cooking was never her forte. Between golf, tennis, bowling, and mah jongg, the days kept her very busy.

   My dad had office hours two nights a week, they went out to dinner on Saturday night, and we often ate at the golf or swim club throughout the summer. I only liked hamburgers, and my dad would go out for a late night snack after dinner, so it was kind of hit or miss when she cooked. There wasn’t a great rush to cook gourmet meals.

But heaven knows she tried!!

   Honestly, she was creative if nothing else. She was the first person to reinvent guacamole by making “Broccomoli” dip as an appetizer.

   

Didn’t have the right ingredients on hand? No problem for mom. Just ask my kids about the time she made them chili with black-eyed peas. (Where she found them in my house I’ll never know). 

   But what I DO remember is that every Friday night, (Shabbat for Jewish families), she would cook dinner served at the dining room table, complete with linen tablecloth and silver wine cups.

   

There was always a fresh Challah bread from the local bakery, and she would make chopped liver as a start (I was never a fan, but all of the Friday night guests loved it).

   Roasted Chicken was the go-to main course. She didn’t want to mess with success so that’s what we had every week. It wasn’t bad, considering that her stove hadn’t been working at full capacity for years.

   Again, she was creative. Although the temperature in the oven never got above 250 degrees, she miraculously fully cooked the chicken by putting it in the oven around 10 AM for a 6 PM dinner. My husband compared it to a full-sized EZ Bake oven with the heating power of one light bulb.

So, do I have stacks of her recipes that I’ve cooked for my family? No.

But what I do have is her recipe for a wonderful life:

She doesn’t expect much, so she’s constantly overwhelmed by what she gets.

She never tried to “Keep Up With The Joneses” because she knew that if they really cared, they’d be there for her.

She is grateful for everything. Her health, her living situation, her friends, her children, grandchildren, and their families. She considers it a gift just to be here.

She never stops learning. Just like the recipe “tweaks”, she’ll try something new until she almost gets it and figure the rest out on her own. She’s a voracious reader. She Skypes & e-mails, texts, and calls on her IPhone. She has a Facebook page with more friends than me. She still does yoga when she can, even if it's sitting in a chair.

She is open to new friendships daily. She believes everyone has something to offer and tells me stories about the interesting people she talks to all of the time.

She loves her family unconditionally and we are the lucky recipients of her recipe for life! 

And I wouldn’t trade that for all of the pies and fried chicken in the world.

"Great Balls of Matzo..."

   

It's Passover, and who doesn’t love matzo ball soup? It’s the staple of every Jewish holiday, and a delicacy in both delicatessens and high-end restaurants. Jewish mothers swear by its healing powers and the “hard” vs “soft” matzo ball debate has raged for centuries.

  If you grew up in a Jewish household or have Jewish friends, you most likely have a relationship with the dish. Even our favorite Italian restaurant in St. Louis has the soup on their menu. 

   It’s a simple dish in theory; matzo meal, eggs, and oil to make the dough and roll into balls. Chicken soup to cook them with, and maybe carrots, celery, and a little onion and seasoning. But….the nuances of each recipe can make or break the taste.

  My Bubbie (Yiddish for Grandma) used schmaltz or chicken fat in her matzo balls and made the soup from scratch. I probably didn’t appreciate the depth of flavor that the fat added to the soup at such a young age, but I remember it being delicious.

   In later years, my mom and aunt would either make the matzo balls and buy the broth, or order it from the grocery store. It always tasted the best on Passover because, after sitting through and hour and a half seder (Passover service), the soup was usually the first course eaten.

    I love most food homemade, but I have to confess, I have always used a packaged soup mix for my matzo balls and added a few tweaks. The matzo balls were light and fluffy and the broth was rich and flavorful. My kids loved it growing up, and I kind of prefer it to homemade, even now. But the first time I made it, I rolled the balls into golf ball size before I cooked them. I didn’t realize that they would “grow” in the boiling broth and ended up with six-inch diameter meteors.

    

However,  what I remember most about matzo balls was the song. My father was always the jokester, and every Passover he would make me, my brother, and my cousins sing the “Matzo Ball Song” before he would let us eat dinner. It was a silly song, but it became such a big part of our family tradition, that all new family members had to participate. My husband, my sister-in-law, my kids; they all had to sing for their supper too.

I think Dad sized up our potential spouses by their willingness to participate.

   

   Years after he passed away, my mom came to visit us on Passover. Since our close friends include us every year in their family and friends seder, my mom was excited to celebrate.

   The meal was beginning, and some friends went into the kitchen to help. Just as mom was telling the group about the matzo ball song, one of the guests spilled an entire bowl of matzo ball soup he was serving directly onto my mother’s head. She was fine; no burns or injuries, but she swears it was Dad letting her know he was watching.

   Any time I’m ready to enjoy a bowl of the soup, the tune pops back into my head with a picture of my Dad, like a band director, making us all sing along:

“I wanna be a matzo ball,

And swim in the middle of the chicken soup.

And float down on a noodle,

Right to the bottom of the whole caboodle.

And when I’m tired and I get kinda hungry,

I eat me a matzo while I’m floating on my tummy.

I wanna be a matzo ball,

And swim home for Pesach (Passover)”

Happy Holiday to all!!

This year, at our virtual Zoom seder, I sang the song to my granddaughters, hoping they will sing the silly song too.