Challah, a Metaphor

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I make challah once a week now. What had been an occasional pastime took on ritual-like importance in March 2020, when activities that required mindless attention to detail were in hot demand. I didn’t plan for the routine. But week after week, I made more.

The recipe I use is one I’ve had since 2014. I was living in London at the time and spending weekends with friends who produced the most addictive challah I had ever eaten. It had all the components, but in platonic proportion—superlative plushness, caramel-colored exterior, a crumb that didn’t tear so much as collapse like a sigh. Think: brioche, with a little more sturdiness. Think: shokupan, but if the cast of Fiddler on the Roof was making it.

A side note: I love the fact that the British use “gorgeous” to mean “delicious.” As in, “That soup is gorgeous.” I think it’s nice to tell food when it looks handsome.

I’d made challah pre-pandemic, with varied results. One week, I’d turn out a batch so glazed and supple it could have starred in a Sephora ad. The next, the bottoms would be burnt. Some loaves browned on the outside before their insides were finished cooking. I’d slice one open and find a ribbon of uncooked goo pooling at the bottom.

But after 24 months of practice, I have the recipe memorized and the steps streamlined and stripped to their most essential selves. With minimal variation, the loaves come out the same each week—puffed and bronzed, like a B-lister fresh from her dermatologist’s office. I don’t feel like I’m doing it better than I used to. I don’t even feel like I’m doing something different. The results suggest that I’ve just improved. After 100 or so weeks of baking, I’m consistent. I no longer experiment. Someone tells me that her challah is sweetened with coconut sugar, and I just nod. Cool. I will stick with sucrose.

At some point what happened was I paid attention to what worked and kept doing that. I skipped the steps that made things more complicated. I tweaked the ratios and then I stopped tweaking. I learned to trust the process.

A few months ago, I was invited to lunch with friends and the host couple asked whether I’d bring challah. This is what happens when you start making this challah. You will be asked to procure it at a moment’s notice. At the meal, we ripped into the loaves and one of the men in attendance started asking questions. He liked making challah too, but he couldn’t nail the texture. Some loaves were fine. Most were too dense. We compared the number of eggs we used. We traded flour-to-water ratios. I was explaining how I liked to weigh the flour and had taken to adding a touch more oil for silkiness, when he cut me off. “I don’t use recipes,” he said. “I go according to feel.”

That’s nice, I told him, thinking of coconut sugar. If it works for you.

“But it’s not working for me,” he said.

I offered to send the recipe, but he wasn’t about to become a recipe person for a simple loaf of challah. Which is fine! His prerogative. We all have our quirks! I happen to think life is hard enough. When someone has a recipe, just take it.

Makes: 3-4 loaves, give or take a few rolls

Halve it for 2 medium-sized loaves

Ingredients:

1 ½ cup (360 ml) warm water
2 packets dried yeast (each standard-sized packet should hold 2 ¼ teaspoons for a total of 4 ½ teaspoons)
7 cups (960 grams) bread flour
¾ cup (150 grams) plus 2 tablespoons sugar, divided
1 teaspoon cardamom
1 tablespoon salt
4 eggs, whisked together
1 cup (240 ml) sunflower or canola oil

To finish:

1 egg
1 tablespoon water
1 teaspoon honey

To-do list:

Make the dough: To the measuring cup holding the warm water, add the dried yeast and 2 tablespoons of sugar. Let sit for 8-10 minutes; it should start to froth like a nice cappuccino.
In a large mixing bowl, combine bread flour, sugar, cardamom, and salt. The cardamom is optional, but know this: If you do include the cardamom, you will sit around the table with your loved ones while people gape—open-mouthed—over how good this challah is. What’s that warm flavor? What tastes so good? This is the most delicious hunk of bread I have ever chewed. You want to experience this. So I recommend springing for the cardamom. I like this one from Burlap & Barrel.
To the bowl with the flour mixture, add eggs, oil, and contents of yeast-water filled measuring cup. You can use your hands to mix from the beginning or start with a wooden spoon and stir until a loose and wet dough comes together. Then knead either on a floured surface or in the bowl itself for 8-10 minutes. The dough should start to feel smooth and elastic and pull apart like a stretched out rubber band instead of just tearing.
Let rise: Clean out bowl and grease it, then return dough to bowl. Cover with plastic wrap. At this point, two options: the dough can rise overnight in the fridge or it can rise for a few hours on a countertop in a warmish corner of the kitchen.
If rising overnight in the fridge: Take the bowl out of the fridge the following morning/afternoon and let it sit untouched on a kitchen counter for 30-60 minutes. I find it hard to work with freezing cold dough, but the de-chill step is optional. After that rest, form loaves.
If rising on a countertop: Let rise in a warm place for 1 ½ to 2 hours. In the summer in a hot kitchen, dough rises faster. In the winter, this process can drag a bit. I’ve never had to wait more than 2 hours for the dough to double in size. Once risen, form loaves.
To form loaves: This recipe makes 3-4 big loaves for me or a mixture of 2-3 big-to-medium loaves plus a few rolls. Divide the dough into either four medium even pieces, three big even pieces, or three medium even pieces, plus a few roll-sized pieces (that’s science, gals!). Then further divide each piece of dough into three or four balls, depending on the braid you’re after. Three balls for a simple braid. Four balls to zhuzh it up a bit. (You can use this tutorial.) You want to go wild? Do a six-stranded braid. Search YouTube for instructions.
Roll each ball into a strand, using your hands. I like to shape (and then bake) either one loaf per quarter-sheet pan or two loaves per half-sheet pan. Line the selected baking sheets with parchment and then place the strands parallel to one another on them to commence braiding.
For the nicest-looking braid, do not pinch the top edges of the strands together to start! Instead, start in the middle and just lift one strand over the next and braid until the bottom. You should have a half-braided challah. Pinch the bottom edges together. Then turn the baking sheet around so that the unfinished side of the loaf is now on the bottom and continue braiding those strands to finish braiding the full loaf.
Repeat with the subsequent loaves. For rolls, just knead them into a round-ish shape and throw them onto their own parchment paper-lined baking sheet.
To bake: Preheat oven to 350. Beat remaining egg with water and honey. Brush onto prepared loaves/rolls. Let loaves/rolls sit and rise for an additional 30-60 minutes. Bake rolls for 15 minutes. For loaves, start checking after 25 minutes. It can be hard to tell when a loaf is done, but one thing that works for me is to knock (as in an actual, literal knock) on the loaf. It should make a hollow sound and not jiggle. I find loaves are done and golden at around 28 minutes. Bigger loaves can take up to 35. Cool loaves on a rack. Devour.

And now for a little housekeeping: We’re shifting the schedule of this newsletter. Going forward, Wednesday installments will be limited to subscribers and Sunday installments will be for everyone. Because you’ve read this far, you’ve earned a recommendation. How about the novel So Big, which won Edna Ferber a Pulitzer Prize in 1925?

A favorite fact about Edna Feber, a Jewish female writer at a time when that made her not just unique, but borderline alien: Once, a man told her that her suit made her look like a man. To which she replied, “So does yours.”

Edna! You minx!

Challah, a Metaphor

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