Challah. No food represents being a Jew more than this mildly spongy, slightly crunchy, honey kissed confection. I’ve made bread before, but there wasn’t any historical or cultural connection to my past bread making experiences. I’d learned to make beautiful loaves through tears and repetition.
In the 5th grade I decided I would learn how to make bread from scratch. I followed the directions precisely. I was at that stage of cooking where you always follow the recipe (now recipes are more like a starting point or a list of suggestions). The two beautiful golden brown loaves looked perfect when I removed them from the oven. After they’d cooled, I flipped the bread tins over and gave the back a wallop. The loaf landed with a thud onto the table. The next seemed even heavier. Slicing them proved difficult. Rather than the smooth back and forth you feel when a serrated knife cuts through bread like slicing butter, it felt more like hacking at a leather hide. The bread was just too dense, impossible to eat.
Never one to waste anything, my mom suggested I feed the loaves to the ducks. At the time, my mom and I lived in an apartment across from Rainier Beach. Little did I know my biological father lived a little way down the beach. Anyway, I ran across the street towards the public beach clutching my loaves trying not to cry at my failed attempt. The ducks saw me coming and quickly paddled over expecting their dinner. I broke off chunks of bread and threw them into the water. The ducks swam as fast as they could, but by the time they reached the place where the bread should’ve been, there was nothing. The bread sunk faster than the ducks cold swim over to eat the brick-like pieces.
The second and third times I tried the recipe, the same dense bread resulted. My mom told me to keep trying, I would get it eventually and I and did. On the four time it worked. I can’t tell you why I was successful on particular attempt, I followed the recipe same as before, but this time my bread was light and fluffy. Ever since then any bread I’ve made has turned out quite well. I brought a loaf over for the ducks as an offering for all of the miserable bread I’d provided before. This time I smiled as white rounds floated on the surface of the dark water like little puff clouds in the sky waiting for the ducks to feast.
Even though I’d masted bread making long ago, I wanted to learn to make Challah from a Jewish chef. I hoped to touch on that sense of generational knowledge, community, and family lore I would’ve felt had I learned to make bread from my grandmother Dora Rubinstein. So, I signed up for a Challah making class at Temple De Hirsch.
I was nervous as I climbed down the multitude of stairs towards the kitchen carrying my yoga matt. I still wasn’t sure why it was requested, but I dutifully brought it. There were a few older women (well older than me), and one young man (well, younger than me) mulling in the large room. The women obviously knew one another. One turned to me and asked me my first name.
“Kara,” I smiled answering her politely.
She asked the young man who stood next to me with his hands shoved into his pockets his name. I can’t remember what he said. I wondered why he seemed to be staring at his shoes. I didn’t see anything amiss with them, but I decided to examine his laces to see what was so interesting and missed his response.
“Are you married?” the woman asked.
“Hmm?” I looked up realizing she was talking to me. “Oh, yes. Almost 25 years.”
The woman nodded, “What was your maiden name.”
Here was the big question. I hadn’t really spoken Sam’s name claiming it as mine. It felt strange on my tongue. I’d said my mantra in my head a million times by now trying to help my new reality sink into my would but I hadn’t gotten used to the name, my name, my new heritage. But, now was the time if there ever was one.
“Rubinstein,” I whispered and cleared my throat. “Rubinstein,” I said again, a little louder.
The other two women standing next to her started talking to each other. I heard something about staying in one of the lady’s homes for the winter in Utah. I guess they’d lost interest in our conversation.
“Oh,” the woman responded. “And, what was your mother’s maiden name?”
Really lady, I thought. I’m standing here in a Reform Temple, about to puke because I had to tell you my father’s name and you have to bring up matriarchal lineage. You see, Conservative and Orthodox Jews believe you are only Jewish if your mom was Jewish (and her mother before her and so forth or if you convert under their auspices). However, in Reform Judaism, you are considered Jewish if either of your parents are Jewish and you live a Jewish life. She had no way of knowing my history, that I’d only recently discovered Sam Rubinstein was my father.
I force a smile across my face. “Edwards,” I say firmly.
“Humph, so you’re not Jewish.” And she turned to join the conversation with her friends.
What I understood she was saying was, “Oh, you’re not Jewish enough for me.” This idea of who is a Jew is quite complicated. The Jewish community is not in agreement on who is Jewish. What is “Jewish enough” is something I decided I needed to learn more about. For the rest of the class focused on Challah because nothing is more Jewish than the art of making Challah.
We made our dough and while it rose, we did Yoga for an hour. At first the idea of Yoga at a Jewish bread making class seemed strange until I thought about it. Judaism teaches joy and on Shabbat, when we make Challah, it is a time of slowing down, introspection, rest—a perfect time for yoga. I understand the connection. After letting our dough rise, we sealed it in zip-lock baggies to be finished at home. The lovely smell of fresh bread filled my house later that evening. It was delicious (and so was the French-toast I made for breakfast).
When I make Challah at home Friday afternoons, as I need my dough I think about the fact that there are tens of thousands of people all over the world doing exactly the same thing as me. It is reassuring and centering to know there are so many participating in the same ritual as I am. My grandmother before me made Challah just has her mother before her and so forth back thousands of years. With my hands in the yeasty dough, I can feel a connection to the women I never met and the hands of my ancestors before me. It is through bread that I can forge a link with my past, present, and future.
