Sticky Hands

I open the garage door and enter to the sound of our old oven preheating. The ingredients flood our island, and a wave of excitement crashes over me. 

“Can I help?” I ask, somewhat impatiently. “Please, please, please!”

“Sure, but you gotta wash your hand first,” my dad responds as he grabs some eggs from the fridge. I run over to our kitchen sink and quickly scrub my tiny hands. 

I just came home from a half day at school. Most Shabboses I don’t get to help with the challah, but this Thursday is special. No one else is home. It’s just my father and me. 

He gives me a measuring cup and tells me to get a cup or so of water. I measure it out and return. We pour in the sugar and yeast, and then we wait. It always confuses me how we can make bread with something alive. Suddenly, the mixture becomes a fluffy consistency, it rises to the brim of the measuring cup, and my dad pours it into our huge mixing bowl. This cloud-like substance looks so soft to the touch. I reach my hand into the bowl to feel the airiness, but my father reaches in at the same time, to pull my hand out of the bowl. 

“We don’t touch it until ALL of the ingredients are in,” he explains. I nod meekly and ready myself for the rest of the process. 

“You’re gonna need to see for this part,” my dad instructs. “So go grab a stool from the bathroom.”

I skip to the bathroom adjacent to the kitchen and reach behind the sink. The white stool with polka dots smiles at me, offering a helping hand. I bring it out and place it on my dad’s right. Finally, no need for tippy-toes.

My dad has already measured the oil and is waiting for me to add it to our mixture. I slowly pour the greasy substance in as my father whisks. So far, I am thoroughly bored. But now comes my favorite part: eggs! The cold, hard, shells fit perfectly in my hand. My little fingers adore the smooth surface; it’s sort of calming. My father cracks the first egg into the measuring cup with only one hand. We check for shells and blood, but there’s no need. It was a perfect break. Then my turn arrives. My hand grips the oval-shaped figure. I try to open it with one hand, but it ends up on the floor. The slimy insides seep into the cracks in our hardwood and the orange yolk begins to ooze. My father chuckles and grabs some paper towels.

“You gotta be careful, sweetie,” he says as he attempts to stifle his laugh. Normally, I would be embarrassed, but he makes me feel safe. We grab another egg and chance the challenge once again. 

We continue adding ingredients until our mixture becomes dough. My father adds enough flour to make me wheeze, and we begin to mix. The dough sticks to every part of my hand. My little fingers work together to knead the sticky substance. He stands behind me placing his hands within the bowl. We mix and mix and mix until our hands start cramping.

After waiting a few hours for the dough to rise, we start to braid the challahs. The soft, fluffy dough feels light in my hands. 

“We need to roll out three snakes,” my dad explains.

My tiny hands can’t work the dough very well, so he has to help me. We are finally able to get them braided, and then we set them out to proof.

“Dad, if you can braid challah so well, why can’t you braid my hair?” I ask with curiosity.

“Hair is different, little girl,” my dad responds. “Leave that to your mother. She’s better at it.”

This makes me giggle. My dad puts the challah in the oven to bake it. I am suddenly distracted by one of the best smells my nose has ever had the privilege to come upon. The sweet aroma of baking bread fills our kitchen.

“Sweetie, it’s pretty late,” my dad informs me. “I think it’s time we get to bed.”   “Noooo,” I whine. “I don’t want to!” I desperately want to be awake to eat the challah we’ve made.

“We can eat the challah tomorrow at dinner. Okay?” my dad promises.

“Fine,” I pout. And my dad carries me up to bed.

The next day, all I can do is wait for dinner. We say all the blessings and wash our hands. Then, finally, it’s time for challah! My dad gives me the first piece, and he asks me if it’s good.

I respond, “Definitely worth the sticky hands!” 

As the years go by, I think back to that day in my childhood kitchen and the joy that followed. I still make challah with my father as my younger siblings make their messes. When I grow up and leave home, I will share this practice with my children. But it isn’t just eating challah or even making it that generates that special feeling; it is sharing the challah with the people I love most that creates a truly holy experience.

The author with her father.