My Nona tries to teach us how to bake. Traditional desserts from her home country, largely forgotten by many families in our community in favor of just buying them. But it doesn’t always work out.
She has her own system of measurements. A Turkish coffee cup as one cup, a spoon one would eat soup with as a tablespoon, and the palm of her hand for salt. I have standard measuring cups and spoons on a keyring. I make exact measurements and flatten flour after the scoop.
She is graceful in how she works the dough, twisting the edges into perfect, identical twists that seal the filling inside while mine leaks in the oven.
She has patience, willing to work with yeast and wait for the dough to rise, willing to take her time and be careful with her folds.
Sometimes, I think she is the only one taking her time while everyone else is rushing.
“You don’t make Hallah anymore,” she says to me.
“I don’t have time, Nona,” I say. “The dough needs 2-3 hours to rise!”
“So? You make time!”
The Junction Journal 
Your post especially resonated with me as it reminded me of my own childhood as I used to help bake challah at my Jewish private school on Long Island. Once a week on Friday afternoon on shabbot day, we would have a lesson where we prepared dough, formed it, and let it rise as we went back for other classes. We did this to engage in cooking activities for the religion. Another way us young kids impressed our parents with anything. It was a way to share and let them taste “hallah”. Towards the end of the day we would come back when it rose after a few hours.
I remember how each student had their name written on the plastic lid or foil cover so we could recognize our own loaf. That memory came flashback as I read your line: “twisting the edges into perfect, identical twists that seal the filling inside while mine leaks in the oven.” That struck me because that was exactly what I did — adding as much money as I could, eager to take it home and impress my parents with it. My twists would never work out occasionally my challah would turn out slightly wheatty as well, but it was mine/others creation so that’s what mattered the most. I also connected with the moment you wrote: “You don’t make Hallah anymore,” she says to me. “I don’t have time, Nona,” I say. “The dough needs 2-3 hours to rise!” “So? You make time!” That exchange captured the same lesson I learned as a kid — the patience and care that goes into making something special. Each word you wrote “twisting the edges into perfect,” “leaks,” “rise” I felt in a way.
The words made the the scene so vivid, in my head awakening those Fridays in school, watching my own dough puff up under a foil lid with my name black written name on top of the plastic covering. The words you used was so vivid that it felt less like reading and more like reliving a memory I hadn’t thought about in years.
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Your post especially resonated with me as it reminded me of my own childhood as I used to help bake challah at my Jewish private school on Long Island. Once a week on Friday afternoon on shabbot day, we would have a lesson where we prepared dough, formed it, and let it rise as we went back for other classes. We did this to engage in cooking activities for the religion. Another way us young kids impressed our parents with anything. It was a way to share and let them taste “hallah”. Towards the end of the day we would come back when it rose after a few hours.
I remember how each student had their name written on the plastic lid or foil cover so we could recognize our own loaf. That memory came flashback as I read your line: “twisting the edges into perfect, identical twists that seal the filling inside while mine leaks in the oven.” That struck me because that was exactly what I did — adding as much money as I could, eager to take it home and impress my parents with it. My twists would never work out occasionally my challah would turn out slightly wheatty as well, but it was mine/others creation so that’s what mattered the most. I also connected with the moment you wrote: “You don’t make Hallah anymore,” she says to me. “I don’t have time, Nona,” I say. “The dough needs 2-3 hours to rise!” “So? You make time!” That exchange captured the same lesson I learned as a kid — the patience and care that goes into making something special. Each word you wrote “twisting the edges into perfect,” “leaks,” “rise” I felt in a way.
The words made the the scene so vivid, in my head awakening those Fridays in school, watching my own dough puff up under a foil lid with my name black written name on top of the plastic covering. The words you used was so vivid that it felt less like reading and more like reliving a memory I hadn’t thought about in years.
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