“The Bread of Affiliation” by Sara Merkin

“אִם אֵין אֲנִי לִי, מִי לי” — If I am not for myself, who will be for me?

********

I punch my tight fists down into the depths of the dough. It’s sticky and thick. I feel the warmth enveloping my fingers. I breathe in as I remove my hands from the dough’s grasp. It slowly rises back up to its original size. I punch again. Exhale. Withdraw. Inhale. Punch. Exhale. Withdraw. Inhale. 

***

I walk into my Jerusalem apartment and find Laura on the couch Skyping with her family, her thick red eyebrows smiling as she speaks. It’s hard to stay in touch with the time difference. Any chance to talk with family is special.

But, Laura and I are not close. I’m just there as she hangs up and begins to cry. I go over and sit with her and give her a hug. I think I need to. 

“It’s fine,” she sniffles, “I just miss my family and I feel like I haven’t had real homemade food in forever.”

 “Why don’t we bake something for us to have this Shabbos? Maybe cookies or challah or something?” I say.

She raises her head slowly, and her breathing slows. I’d love that.

In the Modern Orthodox Jewish culture, it is common to spend a year in Israel after high school. I went because everyone I knew was going. There are a range of programs to choose from. Most people attend some version of a Bible study seminary (for women) or yeshiva (for men). These programs are generally divided by outdated sex concepts. There are clear differences between the way girls and boys are treated. I drank beers in a park with guy friends from home. I wore pants whenever I wasn’t on campus. Otherwise, I followed the rules. 

Israel was my first time living away from my family. It was my first time seeing a therapist for undiagnosed depression. It was my first time grappling with my Jewish identity. It was my first time grappling with my life. 

It was the first time I made challah with a sense of independence. We used Laura’s mom’s challah recipe instead of the one my grandmother gave me. The challah came out dry and dense. It felt sacrilegious. 

***

Step Two: The Dry Part
1 cup sugar
3-4 cups flour
1 pinch of salt 
Mix until combined.. 

It’s Thursday afternoon. I’m 10 years old and watching my mother make challah for the coming Sabbath. The house smells like microwaved broccoli and onions from the hours she’s already spent cooking.

There is a famous Rabbinic tale about the Biblical character Sarah, Abraham’s wife. After Sarah’s sudden death, their son, Isaac, is told to find a wife. They end up choosing Rebecca, a distant relative of the family (who is supposed to be gorgeous but that’s definitely not why she was chosen, for sure not). When Isaac brings her to the tent of Sarah, the text writes that “Isaac was comforted for [the loss of] his mother” (Genesis 24:67). 

A room full of Rabbis sat and wondered why Isaac was comforted Rebecca’s arrival. In those days, all the Rabbis had going on was sitting and wondering. Seriously, go read the Talmud. There’s some weird shit in there from the days when they got bored. The Rabbis concluded that three things returned when Rebecca arrived that were lost after Sarah’s death. While Sarah was alive, a cloud lingered over her tent in protection, she lit candles for the Sabbath, and, she baked and blessed a bread, which we would later come to know as challah. When Rebecca came back and moved into Sarah’s tent, so did these staples that were so important to Isaac, a reminder of his beloved mother.

This all came from a section that appears later on in the Bible. In Leviticus, there is a lengthy (and boring) detailing of the laws relating to the Jew’s desert traveling temple, otherwise known as the Mishkan. At that time, a cloud lingered to show God’s presence, candles were lit by the priests, and holy loaves of bread were baked. 

The Rabbinical interpretation of Sarah and Rebecca is based heavily on the practices of the Mishkan. The three staples of her tent were also the staples of the temple of God. During its prime, the Mishkan existed as a symbol of protection and comfort, much like Sarah’s tent for Isaac. 

Rabbinic tradition uses both of these texts to establish the laws for baking/eating challah. It’s not that the challah dough is that different from other breads. However, it’s religiously viewed as holy, because of the history and process that goes into making it.  It is the bread that is baked for Sabbath, in order to remember Sarah and the practices at the Mishkan. For observant Jews, the Sabbath is a staple of religious life. Saturdays are about escaping technology, spending time with family, and eating a ton of food. The Sabbath begins on Friday night when candles are lit, wine is blessed, and challah is eaten.

As you can probably tell by the confusing nature of these past few paragraphs, the laws of challah (and of Jewish life in general) are a convoluted mess of speculation. Some Rabbi made up the idea that Sarah had bread in her tent and connected it to bread in the Mishkan. Now, thousands of years later, I’m here baking challah.

My mom hands me a measuring cup and tells me to fill it with water for the yeast. But the faucet is too quick for my inexperienced reflexes. I’m stuck with ¾ a cup when it’s supposed to be ½. I spill a bit out to see if I can fix it. 1/3 a cup. I add more water and once again reach the ¾ mark instead. Instead of trying to eyeball it, I drip out tiny amounts, checking after each reduction, until I finally reach the ½. It’s been five minutes. I proudly present the cup to my mother, and she dumps in the yeast without a care in the world. 

“You’re lucky,” she says, “Nanny never used to let me be in the kitchen while she was baking.” 

For years I didn’t understand why people loved my mother’s recipe so much. I would eat the challah with heaps of Sabra hummus or babaganoush. When her challah wasn’t fresh out of the oven, I found it too thick to enjoy. Little globs of dough would stick in my teeth and on the roof of my mouth. And she doesn’t use an egg wash. Who leaves that out? Why would anyone choose to have the top of their bread be dry when it could have a glossy crunch? This is not to say that my mother’s challah is bad (she will be reading this essay, so I have to cover myself). It’s really good. Better than most homemade challah I’ve tasted. But I just can’t help but compare it to the original version of the recipe. 

Going to my grandmother’s house (aka Nanny) for the weekend was always a treat. She is the matriarch of my family; the mother to five kids who each went on to have more than enough children of their own. Three girls and two boys. 22 grandchildren to date. We all managed to live in South Florida. It’s like a Mormon family, but with all the Jewish clichés (except for noses, we somehow dodged that one). 

When my mom and her sisters got married, they were each gifted a handmade cookbook from my grandmother. It’s filled with tons of her concoctions, and most importantly, her challah recipe. Nanny is quite the legendary chef in our area. We say that she could have only pickles, mustard, and cheese in the fridge and still manage to make a delicious three-course meal. And, of course, her challah skills are like no one else’s. If you walk into her house while the loaves are baking, you’ll be transported to a Parisian café with fresh croissants diffusing a sweet buttery smell into the air. You can almost taste it with each breath.

These are the secrets to Nanny’s challah. Keep in mind, I’m telling you this in the deepest of confidence. The first secret is easy, something you wouldn’t think of, but it’s so obvious once you know it. Instead of butter or margarine, my grandmother uses Crisco shortening. Keep in mind, this is Jewish cooking: low-fat is not a thing. Crisco makes the bread fluffier, so it practically melts in your mouth. The only issue is, it’s not great for you. Crisco is full of artificial trans-fat, but hey, worth it. 

The second secret is her innate skill for determining how much flour to use. The challah could need anywhere from 4-6 cups (or however much you need for the dough to actually be dough). It’s the only part of the process where you really have creative control. If you put too much or too little flour the dough will come out wrong. But the issue is, there is no set amount since each batch is different. It is all about figuring out how much flour per batch works for you You have to feel it as you go. After over 50 years of experience, Nanny is an expert at flour proportioning.

I think this is what separates a baker and someone who can follow a recipe. For most, the lack of instruction would freak them out. For someone like my grandmother, it’s a chance to constantly make something new with the most exciting part of baking, creativity.

***

Step Three: The Wet Part
1 cup fat (butter, margarine, shortening)
2 eggs
Cut fat in slices and beat until creamy. Beat in eggs. Stir into dry ingredients until smooth.

I’m in a hall filled with a thousand Jewish women from all different sects of the religion. At my table alone sits: a Haredi mother-daughter duo (with no skin showing except their hands and face), a Conservative Jew (in tight jeans and a tank top), and Modern Orthodox my friends (wearing black pencil skirts and long sleeve shirts from Forever 21). Despite our differences, we’re all wearing the same bright pink ‘Great Big challah Bake’ apron. We’re there to take part in the massive event with participating sections of Jewish women from all around the world. We work together, mixing our ingredients, and following the same recipe. 

Every year during the week of November 10^th Jewish communities host their own challah bakes. Rabbi Dr. Warren Goldstein began this project in 2013 with the intention of uniting Jews across the world. Initially, Goldstein wanted to get as many people as possible—no matter what their observance level—to keep one Sabbath a year. The Great Big Challah Bake is just one of a multitude of projects that this organization has started. The idea behind it is to encourage people to bake challahs that they can then use to celebrate the Sabbath. Each person gets their own bowl, ingredients, and a card that details the Rabbinical process and blessings.

The bake itself is an event that draws in thousands of women every year. According to a Jewish Telegraphic Agency article, in 2016, “8,057 Argentine Jews in the Buenos Aires suburb of Palermo created the world’s biggest challah bake.” I didn’t even know there were that many Jewish women in Argentina. 

The first challah bake I attended was in 2014 in Miami, Florida and it was said to have just a bit over a thousand women. At one point I stood in an upstairs area that looked down at the hall. I was able to see the entire space. 

“I can’t even comprehend the amount of people that are here right now,” I say to my friend Liz. That was just a thousand. Imagine eight times that number of Jewish women united in one place kneading dough. Punching. Exhaling, Withdrawing. Inhaling. Together.

***

“וּכְשֶׁאֲנִי לְעַצְמִי, מָה אֲנִי” — And when I am for myself alone, who am I?

***

Step Four: The Other Wet Part
risen yeast
2 cups water
Add in yeast and mix. Then slowly pour in two cups of water and combine. 

I’m sitting in my therapist’s office on her faux-leather couches. It’s my freshman year of college at the New School in New York City. I’ve barely made friends, hate my roommates, and don’t know how to be alone with myself. 

I play with a fuzzy yellow pillow, distracting my hands so I can sit still. She sits across from me, silent, waiting for me to speak. It’s been three months at this point, I know the drill. 

“I just have no motivation to do anything. I don’t know. Sorry,” I say.

“When was the last time you really felt motivated to do something?” she asks. 

“I guess last semester when I was working on my video editing class project. All I wanted to do was make the video as perfect as I could.”

“Sara, you need to work on finding other creative outlets. You’ll just be depressed if you don’t.”

I discovered stress-baking in my freshman year of college (2019), as the phenomenon began to grow. Many studies have been conducted that determine stress-baking helps with mental health. A study done in 2016 for the Journal of Positive Psychology asked young adults to log the amount of creative activity they did for thirteen days and how these activities made them feel. It was found that daily creative activity can make a person think positively and become psychologically stable. Baking was one of those activities. Quoted in an article on the benefits of stress-baking, Donna Pincus, a Boston University psychology professor noted that, 

Baking has the benefit of allowing people creative expression. There’s a lot of literature on the connection between creative expression and overall well-being. Whether it’s painting or it’s making music [or baking], there is a stress relief that people get from having some kind of an outlet and a way to express themselves. 

The merits of baking impact each person in their own way. For me, baking offers the chance to unwind, to focus my energy on creating, and sneak some validation from my friends.

***

Step Five: The Uncertain Part
4-6 cups of flour
Knead flour into the dough until it no longer sticks to the sides of the bowl.

I walk into the NYU Hillel Sabbath dinner. Do I look okay? Did Jack Gold remember to save me a seat? Does Jack Gold even want to save me a seat? I adjust my dress and glance around the room. It’s a green faux-suede dress that is too short for my mother’s traditional standards, but just long enough for mine.

 I spot Alex by the front. He’s the head of Sabbath organization, setting up trays of food while again wearing a three-piece suit. I stopped wondering why he wore it weekly when he started dating a hot freshman. He waves at me with a big goofy grin on his face. Good Shabbos! He pauses to hand me a shot of grape juice. 

“Think we’re all sitting in the back corner near the food,” he says, “there’s gluten-free schnitzel this week and you know how Jack Gold gets.” He notices the Trader Joes bag on my arm. “What did you bake this week?”

 I smile and take out a tie-dye sugar cookie for him. 

“Let me know what you think, I was feeling crazy and used way too much food coloring.” He bites in and gushes about how good the cookie is. 

I’m ready to go. 

The community gets about 200+ Modern Orthodox Jewish students every week from colleges all over New York City. It’s big for a college scene, but small enough that everyone knows, and talks about, each other. For some people (especially Cooper Union students), Sabbath dinner is the one night a week where they can take a break from the hours of studying, in a badly lit room. Most Cooper Union students aren’t capable of socializing, but we love them anyway. 

For me, the Sabbath is a chance to escape my roommates, ignore my phone addiction, and eat free food. But I also spend an hour getting ready. I feel pressure to make sure the dress I’m wearing is one that I haven’t worn in a few weeks. I pretend to know how to apply makeup. I spend at least five minutes debating whether my dark under-eye circles are covered enough to wear contacts. And I bake.

Most weeks, Anna makes a challah for our table of friends to enjoy. She’s the mom of the group (we fought over that position for a while, but I let her have it). It’s nice to have homemade food to get us through the rubbery schnitzel and bland kugel. Jack Gold, the type of guy who can only be referred by his first and last name, usually bakes some form of a gluten-free dessert. He learned early on that if he wanted desserts he could eat, he’d have to make them himself. To balance things out, I make a batch of cookies that is dependent on flour. 

I get bored with baking the same recipes all the time. I’ve spent many a procrastination hour googling weird new cookies to try. I’ve done lemon rosemary, chili double chocolate chip, biscotti, and more. My next conquest will be lime basil cookies. Wish me luck.

***

Step Six: The Rising Part
Cover the dough with a towel and leave it to rise until it has doubled in size. Punch it down and leave it for about another hour. 
The dough will rise faster in a warmer area.

I am sitting at a Hillel Sabbath dinner table, puncturing the plastic tablecloth with my fingers. I’m surrounded by friends who are all scrambling to get a piece of the pumpkin challah I made. A girl who doesn’t speak to me otherwise, asks for a bit. She does this every week. I tear off a small amount for her, trying to get as little pumpkin filling as possible on it. Her eyes light up as she bites into the bread. She gushes over how amazing it tastes before running back to her table of friends. 

“Why do you keep giving her what you bake?” Anna asks, “she’s so annoying and only comes over here for food.”

 I shrug as I watch Anna rip off another piece of challah. I’ll take the validation wherever I can find it. 

Every week around 7pm on Wednesday, I text Anna to ask if she’s making challah. Every week I hope the answer is no. As much as I love baking cookies, it doesn’t give me the same sense of accomplishment as taking a hot loaf of out of the oven, does. A challah with a shiny and cracking top (yes, I always use egg wash), its steam fogging my glasses, and the feeling of connection to all the powerful Jewish women before me who’ve gone through these motions. I know that I made something great. That people will appreciate me for it. With every completed challah, with every person that comes over to try some, with every compliment I receive, I get to breathe for a moment. Inhale. I pause my anxious thoughts and remember that I have value. Exhale. 

***

“וְאִם לֹא עַכְשָׁיו, אֵימָתַי” — And if not now, when?

***

Step Seven: The Fun Part
1 egg
toppings of your wildest dreams 
Preheat oven to 350. Separate a small piece, do the blessing, and wrap in tinfoil to burn in the oven. 
Shape the dough however you’d like. 
Beat egg and spread over the top. Add toppings. 
Bake for 30-50 minutes, until challah is browned on top. 

I was taught the ritual of baking challah at a young age. Once the dough rises, you need to separate a small piece, wrap it in tin foil, and burn it at the bottom of the oven. This is called Hafrashat challah, or the ‘separation of the challah.’ While you rip the dough, it is customary to recite Blessed are you God of the universe who has sanctified us with His commandments and has commanded us to separate the challah. Then, you lift the small section of dough above your head, and announce, “הרי זו חלה,” Hah-Ray Zoo Challah —this is the challah. You see, the actual bread itself is not the real ‘challah.’ It is really the disconnected chunk, but nowadays the title colloquially to refers to the full loaf.

The burnt piece is like the bread that was burnt in the Mishkan as a sacrifice to God. For some reason, there is a lot of weight placed on lost traditions. The ability to worship that way isn’t available anymore. But Jews cling to it like they’re still sweating in the desert. A part of me thinks it’s ridiculous to continue archaic methods. The challah was made in the Mishkan to feed the Kohanim, who don’t exist as priests anymore. But then I think my mom and grandmother standing in their kitchens with flour splattered on their clothing. That part of me knows how important tradition is to my Jewish identity. 

I also like to think that the separation is also a way of honoring Sarah, our matriarch. Removing the challah from the dough is a way of recognizing the centuries of baking that she started. 

***

Step Eight: The Outcome Part
Have your challah and eat it too.

הרי זו חלה. This is the challah of Sarah, the matriarch. This is the challah of my grandmother. This is the challah of my aunts and cousins. This is the challah of my mother.  This is the challah of me, Sara. This is our challah. This is our history. 

Punch. Exhale. Withdraw. Inhale. 

I will be okay.

Sara Merkin is an MFA candidate in nonfiction writing at The New School. She founded and runs The Schmear, a Jewish satirical news outlet which she considers to be a full time hobby. She is currently working as a library technical assistant at Manhattan College and hopes to pursue a career in library sciences.