Classic Braided Challah

A quiet week, which is my favorite kind. Marvin and I have settled into the summer rhythm — he reads the newspaper on the back porch while I write at the kitchen table. The house is still in the way that only a house without children can be still, though it is never truly empty because the ghosts of David and Rebecca's childhoods are in every room. The pencil marks on the doorframe where I measured their heights. The dent in the hallway wall where David rode his bicycle indoors at age six, a decision he has never fully explained and I have never fully forgiven. The kitchen, always the kitchen, where Rebecca used to sit cross-legged on the counter reading while I cooked, a habit Sylvia would have found appalling and I found secretly wonderful.

I am working on a new blog post about challah. Specifically about the braiding — how the three strands represent different things to different people (unity, truth, peace is the traditional interpretation, though Sylvia said they represented "flour, eggs, and patience, and you need more of the last one, Ruthie"). I learned to braid challah at eight years old, standing on a step stool in the Grand Concourse kitchen, my small hands trying to replicate what my mother's hands did effortlessly. I failed for months. Sylvia never lost patience. This was remarkable, because Sylvia lost patience with everything else — slow cashiers, bad weather, my father's refusal to replace his hat — but never with me in the kitchen. The kitchen was sacred space. In sacred space, you teach with kindness.

I baked two loaves of challah on Friday. One for Shabbat dinner, one for the neighbor, Mrs. DeLuca, who is eighty-two and lives alone and has been receiving my challah every Friday for fifteen years. She is Italian and Catholic and has no obligation to eat Jewish bread, but she told me once that my challah is "better than any bread the Pope has ever eaten," which I consider both a theological statement and a culinary one, and I accept both with the humility of a woman who knows her challah is excellent.

Marvin and I had Shabbat dinner alone. Candles, wine, challah, brisket. The dining room table that seats twelve had two place settings. This is not sad. This is the reality of a Friday night when the children are grown and busy and living their lives, which is what we raised them to do. Marvin said the kiddush. I said the blessing over the challah. We ate. We talked about nothing. We went to bed early. Marriage, at its best, is a series of Friday nights exactly like this one — unremarkable and irreplaceable.

There is something about a quiet Friday night — just Marvin, the candles, and that particular stillness that comes when the table is mostly empty but the heart is mostly full — that makes me want the challah to be perfect. Not performative, not impressive, just perfect in the way that reliable things are perfect: the same recipe I have been making for forty years, the one Mrs. DeLuca declared fit for the Pope, the one my hands know without being told. Here is how I make it.

Prep Time: 30 minutes | Rise Time: 2 hours | Cook Time: 35 minutes | Total Time: 3 hours 5 minutes | Servings: 12 slices (one loaf)

Ingredients

1 packet (2 1/4 teaspoons) active dry yeast
1 cup warm water (about 110°F), divided
1/4 cup granulated sugar, divided
4 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for kneading
1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
3 large eggs, divided (2 for the dough, 1 for the egg wash)
1/4 cup neutral oil (such as vegetable or canola)
1 tablespoon water (for the egg wash)
Sesame seeds or poppy seeds for topping (optional)

Instructions

Activate the yeast. In a small bowl, combine the yeast, 1/4 cup of the warm water, and 1 teaspoon of the sugar. Stir gently and let it sit for 5 to 10 minutes, until it looks foamy and alive. If nothing happens, your yeast is expired — start again with a fresh packet.
Mix the dough. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, remaining sugar, and salt. Make a well in the center. Add the activated yeast mixture, remaining 3/4 cup warm water, 2 eggs, and the oil. Stir with a wooden spoon or your hands until a shaggy dough forms.
Knead. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead for 8 to 10 minutes, until the dough is smooth, elastic, and slightly tacky but not sticky. Add flour one tablespoon at a time only if the dough is sticking to your hands. This is the patience part.
First rise. Place the dough in a lightly oiled bowl, turn it once to coat, and cover with a clean kitchen towel or plastic wrap. Let it rise in a warm spot for 1 to 1 1/2 hours, until doubled in size.
Divide and shape the strands. Punch down the risen dough and turn it out onto a clean surface. Divide it into three equal pieces. Roll each piece into a smooth rope about 16 to 18 inches long, keeping the thickness as even as you can.
Braid. Lay the three ropes parallel to one another and pinch them together firmly at the top. Braid by taking the right strand over the center, then the left strand over the center, alternating until you reach the end. Pinch the bottom ends together to seal. Tuck both ends neatly underneath. Transfer to a parchment-lined baking sheet.
Second rise. Cover the braided loaf loosely with a towel and let it rise for 45 minutes to 1 hour, until noticeably puffed. Do not skip this rise — it is what gives the loaf its softness.
Egg wash and preheat. Preheat your oven to 375°F. In a small bowl, beat the remaining egg with 1 tablespoon water. Brush the egg wash generously and evenly over the entire surface of the loaf, getting into the crevices of the braid. Sprinkle with sesame or poppy seeds if using.
Bake. Bake for 30 to 35 minutes, until the challah is a deep, burnished golden brown and sounds hollow when tapped on the bottom. If it is browning too quickly on top, tent it loosely with foil after 20 minutes.
Cool. Let the challah cool on a wire rack for at least 20 minutes before slicing. It will be very difficult to wait. Wait anyway.

Nutrition (per serving)

Classic Braided Challah — The Bread That Teaches You Everything If You Let It