Beware of Jews Bearing Gifts

I am not a great gift giver. Nor am I comfortable receiving. As a result, this time of year always means anxiously waiting for the holiday season and its rampant gift-giving to be over. Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.

The roots of my Grinchiness run deep. They were planted by my first-generation parents who didn’t exhibit any confusion around extravagant gift-giving. When I was growing up, Hanukkah consisted of a meal of latkes and brisket plus a brand new pair of pajamas for my brother and me. As far as surprises from Santa, who I heard made rogue visits to certain Jewish children in the neighborhood, forget about it. The Siegels kept it real.

My adult children started celebrating holidays and buying gifts as soon as they could. Despite my environmental lessons on the wastefulness of cutting down trees that will end up tossed on the street and pointing out the tacky home décor that turns sane homeowners into out-of-control Disney Imagineers, they both embraced the dominant culture as soon as possible. By the time they turned 20, they far surpassed me in gift-giving expertise.

But, as much as I reject materialism, who can deny the power of one perfect gift? Mine came just as I was turning 30 and it changed my life profoundly.

But, as much as I reject materialism, who can deny the power of one perfect gift? Mine came just as I was turning 30 and it changed my life profoundly. My boyfriend and I were in the early stages of a big, hot attraction. Our quick tumble into love was not the well-planned, researched variety that starts with an algorithm. It didn’t include a long period of dating, meeting the parents, getting engaged, or planning a wedding. Our courtship felt more like a tornado ripping off your roof. As Zorba once put it, our courtship was “the full catastrophe.” 

Eight weeks after the first date I was ready to slow things down. A friend and I planned a weekend getaway in the country. In retrospect, I was enjoying that delicious moment in a relationship when both people feel a strong attraction and there are no obvious roadblocks. In other words, we hardly knew each other.

That Sunday night, soon after I returned to the city, the boyfriend called and asked if he could drop by. Perhaps he was looking for a quick, intimate moment. Why not, I thought? I put on some blush.

Once my shock passed, I cut a slice and took a bite. At that exact moment, I found the man with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life. 

When I opened the door, he was bundled against the cold, with a small, warm package in his hands. “This is for you,” he said, awkwardly thrusting the gift over the threshold. Then he clinched the deal by saying, “I can’t stay. I just want to give you this challah while it’s warm.” Zip, he was gone. Once my shock passed, I cut a slice and took a bite. At that exact moment, I found the man with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life. 

“Was it the bread?” you may ask. Of course it was. It was also the rare gift that did not come with strings attached or beg forgiveness. He didn’t ask to sleep over; he didn’t even ask when we would meet again. And we hadn’t had a fight. I felt loved in a new way.

Forty-one years later I realize it was a hoax. That was the last bread my husband made for me. Meanwhile I went on to a life of cooking, cleaning, organizing and working that was called marriage circa 1980. Of course, many gifts of jewelry, flowers and romantic getaways were to follow. But nothing was ever as pure as that bread.

Looking back, it turns out my husband had a strategy, after all. I had mentioned my beloved grandpa Phillip, who was a Jewish bread baker on the Lower East Side.

Looking back, it turns out my husband had a strategy, after all. I had mentioned my beloved grandpa Phillip who was a Jewish bread baker. He had worked on the Lower East Side until he had inhaled enough flour to retire early and spend the rest of his days cooking, baking and praying. Grandpa Phillip loved sharing his legendary honey cakes and challahs every week at Shabbat. Even better, if you kvelled enough, he sent you home with a little tin-foil wrapped package to get you through the week. My husband placed a bet that the challah would work its magic. He was right.

Now, though I may still be uncomfortable picking out overpriced tchotchkes, when it comes to sharing baked goods or food of any kind, including extravagant restaurant meals, I shine. As does the next generation.

On my last birthday, my sons got it just right. My youngest sent over a snazzy cookie and cake assortment from Milk, while the oldest sent a monthly bread subscription to Zingerman’s in Ann Arbor. They know I love the taste of carbs in the morning—sprinkled with love.

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.