Eli and the Slippery Challah

Every Friday, Eli's mom drove him down the long road with the bumpy part near the old oak tree, past the little red mailbox shaped like a rooster, and up the gravel driveway to Bubbe's house.

And every Friday, Bubbe was already standing at the door, waving with both hands like she was trying to flag down an airplane.

"There's my Eli!" she called out, just like she always did.

"There's my Bubbe!" Eli called back, just like he always did.

He ran up the steps and into her arms, and she smelled the way she always smelled — like flowers and soap and something warm from the oven.

But today, the kitchen smelled different. Not like the usual cookies or soup. Today, the whole house smelled warm and yeasty and sweet, like bread that was still dreaming about becoming bread.

"Bubbe," Eli said, sniffing the air, "what's that smell?"

Bubbe's eyes sparkled. "That, my love, is challah dough. And today, you and I are going to braid it together."

On the big wooden table sat a round lump of dough, covered with a damp towel. It looked like it was sleeping.

"The dough has been rising all morning," Bubbe said, lifting the towel gently. "See how it grew? The yeast inside has been making tiny little bubbles, and the dough puffed up like a pillow."

Eli poked the dough. It was soft and squishy, and his finger left a little dent that slowly filled back in.

"It pushed back!" he said.

"That means it's ready," Bubbe said with a smile.

Bubbe sprinkled flour on the table like she was sprinkling snow. She punched the dough down — poomf — and it sighed out all its air.

"Now," she said, "we divide it into three pieces. Because a challah braid has three strands, just like a regular braid."

Bubbe pulled the dough apart into three lumps, and then she showed Eli how to roll one piece into a long rope.

"Back and forth, back and forth, nice and gentle," she said. Her hands moved like they had done this a thousand times. Because they had. "Not too skinny, not too fat. Like a snake that just ate a very good lunch."

Eli laughed. He picked up his piece of dough and started rolling. It stuck to his hands. He pulled it off one hand, and it stuck to the other hand. He pulled it off that hand, and it stuck to the table.

"More flour," Bubbe said, tossing him a little handful.

Eli tried again. His rope was lumpy. One end was fat, and the other end was thin, and the middle had a weird bump in it.

"Bubbe, yours looks like a perfect rope. Mine looks like a snake that ate a tennis ball."

Bubbe laughed so hard she had to hold onto the table. "That's exactly what my first one looked like, too. Push the bump flat and keep rolling."

Finally, they had three ropes lying side by side. Bubbe pinched all three together at the top.

"Now," she said, "we braid. Right strand over the middle. Then left strand over the middle. Right over middle. Left over middle. See?"

Bubbe's fingers moved quickly. The strands twisted over and under each other, weaving into a beautiful pattern — a fat, golden rope of dough that looked like it belonged in a painting.

"Your turn," she said, unbraiding it with a wink.

Eli stared at the three strands. Right over middle. He grabbed the right strand and pulled it over. So far so good. Left over middle. He grabbed the left strand and — it stuck to the right strand. He pulled them apart, and the middle strand flopped off the table.

"Oh no!" He caught it just before it hit the floor. But now the top where they were pinched had come undone, and all three strands were just lying there like three lazy snakes who refused to cooperate.

"Let's start again," Bubbe said calmly. She pinched the tops together. "Try once more."

Eli took a breath. Right over middle. Good. Left over middle. The dough squished and stretched, and the strands started to look more like a messy pile of worms than a braid.

"Bubbe, it's not working!" Eli said. He could feel his cheeks getting hot.

Bubbe pulled up a chair and sat down right next to him. She put her hands over his hands.

"Feel this," she said softly. "Right over middle." She guided his right hand, and the strand moved smoothly into the center. "Now let go with this hand and pick up the new outside strand. Left over middle."

Something clicked. Eli felt the rhythm.

"Right over middle," Eli said.

"Left over middle," Bubbe said.

"Right over middle."

"Left over middle."

They went slowly, and the braid started to form. It wasn't as neat as Bubbe's — it leaned a little to the left, and one part was thicker than the rest — but it was braiding. Actually braiding!

"I'm doing it!" Eli whispered, like if he said it too loud, the challah might hear and fall apart again.

"You are doing it," Bubbe whispered back.

When they reached the end, Bubbe showed him how to pinch the bottom strands together and tuck them under. They set the braided challah on a baking sheet, and Bubbe let Eli brush the top with beaten egg.

"That's what gives challah that beautiful shiny golden top," she said.

Eli painted every inch of the braid carefully, like it was the most important painting in the world. Then Bubbe sprinkled sesame seeds on top.

"Into the oven it goes," Bubbe said.

While they waited, Bubbe made tea, and Eli washed the sticky flour off his hands. They sat at the kitchen table, and Bubbe told him about learning to braid challah from her bubbe — Eli's great-great-grandmother — in a tiny kitchen far away.

"Did she teach you when you were my age?" Eli asked.

"A little older. And my dough fell apart many times. Once I got so frustrated that I smooshed it all into a ball and said I'd just make a round challah instead."

"You can make round challah?"

"Oh yes! Sometimes we make round ones for holidays. But the braided ones are for Shabbat. Every Friday. Three strands braided together."

"Why three?"

Bubbe thought for a moment. "Some people say the three strands stand for truth, peace, and kindness. Some people say they're just beautiful. I think it's both."

Then the timer went off, and Bubbe opened the oven, and the most wonderful smell came pouring out. It was warm and golden and sweet, and it filled every corner of the kitchen and probably the whole house and maybe even the yard.

Bubbe lifted the challah out carefully with her oven mitts.

It was gorgeous.

The braid had puffed up in the oven, and the top had turned a deep, shiny gold, and the sesame seeds dotted it like tiny stars. It was a little uneven — one part thicker than the other, leaning slightly to the left — and it was the most beautiful challah Eli had ever seen.

"Did I really make that?" Eli said.

"You really made that."

They had to wait a few minutes for it to cool, which was the hardest waiting Eli had ever done in his life. Harder than waiting for his birthday. Harder than waiting for the school bus on a cold morning. Harder than waiting for anything, ever.

Finally, Bubbe said it was time. She let Eli tear off the first piece.

The crust crackled softly, and inside, the bread was pillowy and warm and just a little bit sweet. Eli chewed slowly.

"Bubbe," he said, with his mouth still a tiny bit full, "this is the best challah in the world."

"You know what," Bubbe said, tearing off her own piece, "I think you might be right."

That night, when Eli's mom came to pick him up, he carried the rest of the challah in a bag on his lap the whole way home. He held it carefully over every bump in the road, especially the bumpy part near the old oak tree.

At dinner, he tore off a piece for his mom and a piece for his dad and a piece for his little sister, who immediately got sesame seeds in her hair.

"Eli made that," his mom said.

"Well," Eli said, "Bubbe helped. But next Friday, I'm going to do the braid all by myself."

And on Friday, he tried. And the dough slipped apart once.

But only once.

And the Friday after that, his fingers remembered exactly what to do — right over middle, left over middle — and the braid held together from top to bottom, even and golden and beautiful.

And Bubbe stood beside him, waving her floury hands in the air, like she was flagging down an airplane made of joy.