Fridays were always special in my grandparents’ home. Not only did sundown mark the beginning of Shabbat, but the house smelled heavenly all day from all the cooking and baking. When I would do my homework after school in a room down the hall, I knew what we’d have for dinner that night without leaving my desk. Grandma Rachel was considered one of the best Challah makers in our community.

Mingled with the aroma of roasting chicken, apple stuffing, potatoes and her special carrot dish called tsimmus (definitely not my favorite), was the unmistakable perfume of baking bread…challah.

My mother and my aunts would ask Grandma to teach them how to make the beautiful braided and shiny loaves, but she stubbornly kept the secret to herself. If they stepped up quietly behind her while she worked the sweet dough, I’d hear her stamp her foot and dismiss them in Yiddish “gay, gay, gay avec.”

One afternoon, homework done, I walked into the kitchen to inhale to my heart's delight. Grandma looked up. “Vas vilst du, Tsureleh?” I was all of twelve at that time, the eldest granddaughter. She and I had been friends and gin rummy buddies for a while and she knew I was not aspiring to become a Challah baker. I was thus allowed to stand close and watch as her busy hands kneaded and punched, shaped, and then braided the fragrant dough. After making one large bread, she placed a smaller braided version on top of the first, -a veritable work of art.

“Kally” is hard to say, Grandma!” She looked at me and giggled, her tummy shaking under the flowered apron. “Nisht kally,” she said, patting my face with a floured hand, which made her laugh all the more. “It's chhhhhhalahhhh…with a chhh. Make like something’s caught in your throat and you need to spit it out.” It took a few hard coughs but I got it right. Then it was time to put the loaf into the oven. I knew that the next time I saw it, there would be a golden brown masterpiece ready for Friday night dinner.

But one mystery remained. Grandma always pinched and removed a small piece of dough from the rest before she baked it. This little nugget was burnt…yes, burnt! She’d say a tiny prayer and throw it away. She watched me. My mouth opened in amazement. “Better close your mouth, Tsureleh, or a fly might go in. I think you’re old enough to hear why this is done.”

It was a long time ago, and I may not remember correctly, but I believe the little piece of burnt Challah dough commemorated the tithe given to the Cohen priests in the Temple.

The Temple, she said, was the heart of Judaism, the source of blessings and prayer and the meeting place of all Jewish people when they gathered to celebrate the Festivals.

“Tsureleh, when the people came together to ‘daven’ and dance and unite in friendship and love, it made us strong. When the Temple was destroyed, we lost those things. We have to remember this and then rebuild…always rebuild.”

I can’t eat Challah today without smelling that wonderful aroma of baking bread, without seeing my Grandmother's hands creating it, without hearing her voice, without feeling her soft, floured hands on my cheek.

The lesson of the burnt offering has come back to me many times. Whenever dreams are shattered or faith weakened… whenever we lose heart, we have to mourn the loss, and gain strength from each other, and our roots, and then find our way back to rebuild anew.

Challah is not merely a beautiful and delicious bread. To me, it is Grandma Rachel, reflecting all she taught me about who I am as part of a rich and precious heritage. She is gone from me now, but never lost. With my senses, she is immortal.

© 2003 ednshirley@aol.com