My First Challah

Good news from Austin! My two grandchildren are back in school—masked and socially-distanced but very happy to have their lives back. Unlike some finicky adults, these first- and fourth graders don’t give a whit about wearing masks all day. If that’s what it takes to be with friends again and get a break from parental oversight, it’s worth it. In early September, their calendar is already jam-packed with after-school activities, sleepovers, and birthday parties—just like the old days. Suddenly, baking with grandma over Zoom, an activity we did through the pandemic, is so old school.

Honestly, I would do almost anything to touch my grandkids first thing in the morning and tuck them in at night for three days. It has been a very long five months.

Not one to give up, I concocted a plan to re-introduce baking together with an in-person session. After seducing the parents with a three-day all-inclusive babysitting package including enriching museum visits, a glorious day at the beach, and organic made-from-scratch meals, they broke down and booked tickets to Los Angeles for Labor Day. Our exchange was simple. They got a romantic getaway in Laguna; I got three days in paradise with my favorite people, Piper and Finn. I swore that compulsive handwashing plus daily bathing and shampooing would not be a bother. Honestly, I would do almost anything to touch my grandkids first thing in the morning and tuck them in at night for three days. It has been a very long five months.

Selecting the right baking project was easy. With Rosh Hashanah starting Monday night, a homemade challah was a an obvious choice. Since I had managed to avoid bread baking during my 30 years of child-rearing and working full time, we were all newbies. Though I was a bit anxious and had no time for recipe-testing, Piper’s proficiency with dough handling gave me the confidence I needed to make the traditional egg bread. I chose a basic recipe, minus all the wacky add-ins like apple sauce, turmeric, chocolate chips and even garlic. Who wants garlicky challah when comfort is the top priority?

When I told Piper over the phone that we would be making challah, I was pleased that she knew what I was talking about since her family doesn’t observe the traditions. Theirs is a mixed family. “There’s a Jewish girl at my school who makes challah every week with her mom,” Piper said. “It’s delicious!” She wanted to make challah, but she assured me that she would not be having a Bat Mitzvah. “We are normal people,” she smartly explained. 

Even as someone who is fully Jewish, my memories of the High Holidays are mixed. As a girl in the Bronx, the whole world would stop during this time. It was like a national holiday. Everyone put on their best new clothes and whether your family had the money for seats in synagogue or not, you promenaded on the Grand Concourse to show the world that you were ready for whatever the year might bring. Twenty years later, as a newcomer to Los Angeles, with a little boy to raise and without any family nearby, we joined a reform Temple. We hoped to connect with strangers in order to educate our son in being a Jew. But he, like his parents, never felt comfortable with all the rituals and high theatrics. Not to mention the signals of status that telegraphed to us that we surely did not belong. After his Bar Mitzvah, we stopped going.

On the Jewish holidays we started gathering with our neighborhood friends and celebrating in an easy way, in the comfort of our homes surrounded by the warmth of those we knew well and loved.

Then, in our forties a miracle happened. On the Jewish holidays we started gathering with our neighborhood friends and celebrating in an easy way, in the comfort of our homes surrounded by the warmth of those we knew well and loved. Not everyone could recite the Hebrew prayers, and some people did not get dressed up, but our kids and the holiday rituals held us together year after year. Now, though the children are mostly gone, we continue to gather on the holidays, to raise a glass or two. 

When I became a grandparent, I found myself thinking more about my own childhood, and what I absorbed from my grandparents. To me, a little girl in 1950s Bronx, they seemed to be from another planet. They wore funny clothes, listened to Yiddish radio, and ate weird foods. Remember stuffed derma? Now I realize they were clinging to their own beloved traditions to preserve the dissolving European past. 

As a contemporary grandmother, I’m surprised at how often I weave bits about my birth family’s Jewishness into the stories that I tell the children. I like to sneak in a Yiddish expression, throw them an exaggerated facial expression, sneak them a handmade butter cookie—subtle signs of being Jewish and being loved. Making a challah together was sharing with Piper a taste of my own past.

Watching her confidently twist the strands to make that sunny loaf reminded me of how much she has grown. When we started baking, about a year ago, the girl had no technique. Just a lot of enthusiasm and attention to detail. Now she has not an ounce of anxiety where making a dough is concerned. And when it comes to kneading and punching down the dough, she has far exceeded her grandma. She has the touch. And way more strength in the wrists.

My hope with all this baking is to weave together strands of my own past so that Piper and Finn will know more about where they came from later. When life gets more complicated.

Los Angeles food writer Helene Siegel is the author of 40 cookbooks, including the “Totally Cookbook” series and “Pure Chocolate.” She runs the Pastry Session blog. During COVID-19, she shared Sunday morning baking lessons over Zoom with her granddaughter, eight-year-old Piper of Austin, Texas.