I start making challah on Thursday afternoon, somewhere between the after-school activity rush and the dinner rush. The recipe came from a friend and is extremely easy, which is an important part of this story because I do not bake. It also contains no eggs, which I cannot stand using while baking for reasons I cannot defend and probably don’t belong in this piece.
Yeast, sugar and water go in one bowl. Flour, oil and salt in another. I wait about half an hour, pour the wet into the dry and start mixing.
My daughters see me doing this every Thursday. They sometimes ask me if they can help, but they’ve stopped asking me what I was doing years ago. The odd thing about this arrangement is that I did not grow up watching my own mother make challah.
When I lived with my parents, the kitchen belonged to her. This was especially true before Shabbat, when she could produce dinner for 30 people with the uncalm (not a typo) territorial authority of someone who does not require assistance and shan't be asked if she needs help. Honestly, I mostly still do.
I am married, I have four children and my mother still hosts Shabbat often enough that I have never had to become the woman cooking dinner for 30 people myself. I am spoiled, yes, but that routine also tells you something about the home I grew up in: Shabbat was never treated as an optional event. Friday night arrived and everything organized itself around it.
My mother did not teach me to make challah (clearly, the non-baking genes run deep), but she taught me that Shabbat should require something of you. When I married and had a kitchen of my own, challah became my something. Once the dough comes together, I tear off a small piece, say the blessing for separating challah and burn the piece, as Jewish practice requires.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
