Neither were the second. As mentioned, I work better under (in-
tense) pressure and, somehow, the call to bake challah for just
myself and my husband didn’t work as well on me as the near-
ly impossible task of making five batches of challah on my very
first try. But I was determined and persevered.
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I N T R O D U C T I O N
As the weeks went on, my challah baking became more
streamlined. I worked it neatly (more or less—my husband may
perhaps argue that it was not so neat—I still make a royal mess
every time I bake challah) into my Friday routine and it became
the one Shabbat food I and my family wouldn’t do without.
And something incredible happened. As I kneaded my way
through numerous moves (and their accompanying kitchens),
pregnancies, childbirths, sleepless nights, job changes, illness
and loss, my challah baking became something more—exponen-
tially more—than the act of baking bread.
Each week, as I mixed the ingredients into my large, by now
well-used, stainless steel challah bowl, scooped up the flour
stuck to the bottom, kneaded and pounded and massaged, I be-
gan to feel the challah dough echoing the sounds (and, at times,
cacophony) of my life. The act of making the challah, the mitzvah
of taking the small piece of dough with the blessing, and the roll-
ing and braiding of the strands, became meditative, meaningful,
therapeutic, and soul-refreshing.
It occurred to me one week, in the deep humidity of August,
that the stickiness of a dough that just wouldn’t become “perfect”
would still end up as delicious challah. I then realized that if I
only put my love and care into the sticky situation I was currently
dealing with in my life, things would turn out pretty okay, as well.
While scooping up some leftover dried bits of flour that didn’t
seem to want to become part of the whole and incorporating
them gently into my growing dough, I found that, soon enough,
they seamlessly joined. Maybe the people who viewed them-
selves as outsiders would, in our efforts to reach out and gently
include them, feel loved and part of something bigger and beau-
tiful.
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R I S I N G
Each ingredient became significant, each act in the process
of creating and braiding and baking the dough became infused
with meaning, and I realized that the challah baking was grow-
ing into something bigger. It was rising.
I found myself running to my computer each week after plac-
ing the challah dough in its bowl to rise, and jotting down my
thoughts, experiences, and epiphanies of that week’s challah
baking.
In my capacity as rebbetzin of a quickly growing community,
I began to find that as I spoke with women about their hopes,
frustrations, sorrows, and triumphs, challah baking was some-
how always there to guide me in its wisdom. I began teaching
a monthly challah class, drawing in women from all walks of
life; somehow challah baking was calling out to women every-
where—people we had met and hadn’t heard from in years were
suddenly asking to be included in the next challah class. I had
to close registration on each class and open waiting lists that
stretched into the following year.
I was on to something.
Challah baking awakened something in women, a deeply root-
ed feminine desire to nurture—and nurture creatively and pos-
itively—that we had perhaps ignored for a long time. There was
something in the challah baking that spoke to us as women, as
builders and listeners, that called out to be answered.
And how the women have answered! Over the past decade of
challah classes taught all over the world, I have received emails,
letters, and calls from around the globe that testify to the incred-
ible power of challah baking and how it is so much more than
meets the eye.
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I N T R O D U C T I O N
Throughout this book I invite you into my little kitchen as we
mix, measure, knead, and shape, and open up to the possibilities
that baking challah can bring into your life. It is my hope and
prayer that the ancient wisdom in challah that has guided me in
rise to a happier home and a more confident, nurturing you.
2 1
R I S I N G
“THE GREATEST GIFT IS A PORTION OF THYSELF.”
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON
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Chapter I
The Gift of Challah
“The first of your dough, challah, you shall offer as a gift . . . .”
—Bamidbar 15:20
“. . . and it shall be a gift for all generations.”
—Bamidbar 15:21
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON
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R I S I N G
I used to think that if I gave something away, I would have less.
Indeed, in a universe dictated by the laws of physics, this
seems to be the case. When we give away a portion of our mon-
ey, a smaller sum remains. When we take time out of our day to
do something for another, we end up with less time to allot for
other purposes.
A verse in the Torah counters this belief and tells us that the
more we give away, the more we will, in fact, have.
The words “Asser te’asser/ You shall surely tithe” (Bamidbar
14:22), can also be read as “Asser te’asher,” changing the transla-tion to “Tithe and you will be wealthy.” Our sages interpret this
phrase to mean “Through the giving of your wealth you will be-
come wealthy” (Taanit 9a).
Kind of turns our thinking on its head.
Challah, as a practice and a privilege, has been given to us to
prove this theory.
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T H E G I F T O F C H A L L A H
Giving is Receiving
Nurturing others in the “me” generation has become increas-
ingly and singularly difficult. We have been raised to believe that
we need to always take excellent care of ourselves, cultivate our
wants and desires, and consistently make sure we are putting
ourselves first.
This has benefited humanity in many ways, primarily in that
it has allowed women to voice their true tendencies and desires
and step forward into multitudes of new possibilities, giving the
world strong female leaders. Yet, conversely, it seems to have
made all forms of nurturing, especially parenting, all the more
difficult and conflicted.
Having gotten used to feeling that we must put ourselves first,
putting another life ahead of our own and answering another’s
wants and desires before our own seems counterintuitive and
possibly damaging to ourselves. Surrounded by need, in all its
many incarnations, we feel cheated of our “me” time and strug-
gle with the sensation that something has been taken away from
us.
In those early days of child raising and learning to be a MOTH-
ER (yes, capitals on that one), I struggled mightily with the feel-
ing that my creativity,
that very thing that fueled me, was being
trampled upon. Thinking about my next shower seemed just
about as much as I could handle, never mind having a whole lu-
cid thought, let alone an idea. Who was I?
I kept hearing this phrase from experienced parents (accom-
panied by the requisite sagely head–nod), “Long days, short
years.” I didn’t get it then. If the days felt so endlessly long, just
imagine the years!
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R I S I N G
But, as the days slowly, slowly, went by, I started to experience
bursts of pure joy that broke me open with their sharp edges of
clarity. And, shockingly, as desperately as I desired my space and
my “me” time, these jolts of joy were occurring in my moments
of pure dedication to this new life.
Ironic. When we give of ourselves in a way that is true to who
we are, we receive so much more than we give. We exit fuller
than we entered. Just like flames, we give light to others and be-
come brighter in the process.
Connecting to Perfection
Challah is a mitzvah.
Mitzvah is often translated as commandment, although it also
stems from the word tzavta/connection. At its essence, a mitz-
vah is a connector. It is an opportunity through which we can
connect with our deepest selves and with our Creator.
As the Jewish nation stood on the threshold of a new reality,
at the borders of the land they would soon conquer, cultivate,
and love forever, they received a plethora of instructions. Each
of these served as an opportunity through which to remain con-
nected while farming, harvesting, baking, and living. Of these
mitzvot, one stands out as particularly powerful, connective,
and eternal: the mitzvah of challah.
“And it shall be when you eat from the bread of the land, you
shall offer up a gift for G-d. The first of your dough, challah, you
shall offer as a gift . . .” (Bamidbar 15:19-20). Verse 21 continues by
stating that this will be a gift for future generations, as well.
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T H E G I F T O F C H A L L A H
We start with a seemingly perfect ball of dough, beautifully
round, having combined the basic ingredients of life—water, air,
and matter—to create something more than the sum of its parts.
Yet, we are told, this dough is not complete. It is not yet whole.
We must remove a piece of this dough to create perfection.
The Balancing Act
So here’s where the idea of challah started to really connect
for me. At the age of 34, I was diagnosed with a serious illness.
At an age where mortality was not something I had ever con-
sidered, and the invincibility of my 20s had not quite worn off, I
was told that I had a potentially fatal disease. The prognosis was
excellent and I am, thank G-d, alive and well to tell the tale, but
the treatment involved removing a part of me that I had never
given much thought to before, yet suddenly took on tremendous
importance. Having never gone through surgery or illness, it
seemed to me that this removal of a piece of myself would ren-
der me incomplete, somehow less than I had been before.
That Friday morning, one day after having received my diag-
nosis and a few days before Yom Kippur, the most awe-inspiring
day of reckoning, a day when we mimic death to feel the shock
of mortality, I found myself elbow-deep in my challah dough, as
always. But, this time it was different. I was kneading and hop-
ing and praying—and, as always, finding more of myself in the
process—when it occurred to me that the challah, so perfect
looking and whole, was, in fact, incomplete. It required the re-
moval of that little piece of dough to attain its fullness. “Ahhh,” I
thought, “this is what it’s about.” We give and give of ourselves
and think that it is depleting us, but, truthfully, it is precisely
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R I S I N G
through the giving of ourselves that we become more whole.
As I went through my illness and all its consequential suffer-
ings in the quest for healing, I kept hearing over and over, “It’s
time to take care of yourself now.” To tell the truth, I had been
so busy taking care of my babies, my husband, my community,
and my career as a graphic designer, I wasn’t actually sure what
taking care of myself even looked like. In fact, though I felt happy
and fulfilled, there was a part of me that felt markedly depleted.
Thus began my search for a balance in the care for myself and
nurturing of others. I will not say that I’ve figured it out com-
pletely, except to say that I’ve figured out that it’s a lifelong bal-
ancing act, one that requires constant checking and re-calibra-
tion. And, in my challah-baking practice, I’ve found the tools to
refocus my nurture-balance on a weekly basis.
The Nurturing Continuum
The flow of giving and receiving is essential to our wellbeing.
As women, we represent the cosmic female energy of nurturers.
In Kabbalistic terminology, we are receivers. This interplay of
giving and receiving is a balancing act that is crucial to our suc-
cess and happiness. We take care of our needs in order to give to
to others; we give to others and receive more in return.
This sounds like a simple enough equation, but it tends to get
kind of complicated. What about those people who are endless,
bottomless pits of need—the people we take care of who leave
us feeling depleted, yet, somehow, simultaneously guilty of not
giving enough?
When we give from a whole and healthy part of ourselves, we
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T H E G I F T O F C H A L L A H
give in a way that is well-received and, in turn, is replenishing.
When we give out of a sense of guilt, we become depleted by our
giving.
This is an equation that works both ways. The best intentions
on the part of the giver cannot make up for a lack of desire or
ability of the recipient to receive.
In our quest for a perfect nurture-balance, we need to evaluate
our relationships and determine whether our giving is enabling
us to feel replenished—indicating a healthy relationship—or
whether our giving leaves us feeling depleted, suggesting the
need for us to create distance so that we can continue to give to
others with an open and loving heart.
Again, my challah helped me understand this on a deep and
personal level. My recipe on page 173 in this book (best. challah.
ever.) is a really big recipe. It makes enough for four challahs—
or so I had always thought. For years I would make this challah
recipe every week and give away two challahs, keeping only the
two I needed for myself and my husband. It gave me so much
pleasure to give these challahs away and I never got any com-
plaints from the recipients, either! It was so much fun to think of
whom I would gift with fresh homemade challah each week and
it made my challah baking practice so much more meaningful,
as well.
Well, my family grew and suddenly I needed all those loaves
of challah for my own Shabbat table. I really didn’t want to stop
giving my weekly challah gift so I started making two batches of
challah each week. With everything that was going on in my life,
this just took me over the edge. My challah making became hur-
ried and stressful and didn’t feel nearly as satisfying as it used
to. Well, you can guess what happened: I stopped giving away
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R I S I N G
challah—it was just too much for me. Until one Friday, when I
got a phone call that a good friend was in the hospital.
Wouldn’t it be perfect, I thought, if I could drop off some
homemade challah for her family—some tasty love and comfort
during a hard time? But my dough had already been made and
there was no time to make another batch. I divided my dough
into six parts that week and, lo and behold, each of those six
challahs were perfect! I was floored. I had thought my challah
recipe only made four loaves when it actually made six. Or so I
thought.
Years passed, during which I made six challahs each week.
Soon, though, I needed all those for my own growing family and,
once again, I stopped giving challah away. I’m sure you can guess
what happened next. One fine week, my magical challah dough
stretched to make eight challahs and I began to give the challah
out again. So now, when I give you my recipe, I will tell you that
it makes eight perfectly sized loaves. You may just be able to take
it further . . . I know I have.
Sometimes, we may think that we don’t have enough to give.
We extend ourselves past our own resources, feeling depleted
by the effort. But, when we dig deeply, we find that we do, in fact,
possess the perfect amount to give, right there in our very own
dented bowl of love.
Elevated Bread
Challah, as we know it, is essentially bread. Perhaps prettier,
sweeter, but really just bread. Yet, it is never called bread. It is
called challah. It is special, different than our daily bread.
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T H E G I F T O F C H A L L A H
The Hebrew word for bread is lechem. In their Hebrew spell-
ing, challah and lechem are made up of the same first two let-
ters— Lamed and Chet—; the final letter of each word is their
only difference. Lechem ends with a Final Mem, whose shape is