It was the yeast that did it. A post on my local Facebook group asked people to support our favourite café. “We have quiches, salads, cakes…’ it said.,‘…and flour, sugar, yeast.’
Yeast! I knew this was in short supply. True, I had lived more than five decades without ever using yeast, but — always competitive — if there was yeast available, I was having it.
I dispatched my son (his university studies rudely interrupted by lockdown, he is now my shopper, cleaner and personal trainer). He returned with something that looked like putty — grey, squidgy, wrapped in cling film. What’s more, the café being out of flour — hordes descended as soon as the post went up — he’d gone to the Londis and found Italian bread flour. “Hurray”, I said, dubiously. looking at the grey lump (wasn’t yeast usually dried and in packets?). “Let’s make challah!”
I had never before felt the slightest need to express my Jewish womanhood through the medium of bread. It all looked way too complicated. I’m not a natural baker at all. Baking requires precision and patience. I prefer the sort of cooking that is quick, creative and can’t go wrong.
But we don’t live near any kosher bakeries. And when we went to stock up, the people chatting on the pavement outside put me off. Plus here was the perfect Lockdown Project. I set myself the challenge of baking challah every week. Maybe I’d perfect it in a few months, and become one of those balaboosta types. Stranger things had happened.
I watched the JC video on making the perfect challah, featuring Tami Isaacs from Karma Bread and our own Victoria Prever. It all looked straightforward. Whoosh, mix all the dry ingredients together, whoosh, in with the wet ones, mix it up a bit, knock it around a bit, leave it to double in size, fling some flour around, make four strands (sausages, insisted Victoria) and then plait…strand three over one, sausage two over four…easy peasy. But wait…where were the ingredients? And what to do with my weird fungoid fresh yeast, when Tami and Victoria used the dried stuff?
I abandoned the JC’s guidance and searched for a challah recipe using fresh yeast. I found one by a French blogger called Nathalie. Was she Jewish though? Ever since Bake Off’s Paul Hollywood suggested that challah should be airy and light, and was generally eaten at Pesach it’s been clear that you can’t always trust challah recipes by non Jews. But there was no time to check credentials. So I followed Nathalie’s instructions, kvelled as the dough swelled, tried to remember the plaiting rules (was that one over three, two under four?) and ended up with something that looked quite plausible, although it was more twisted than plaited. But wait — I needed a pastry brush to add the egg glaze. I had no such thing. But I did have a spare make up brush, never used, which could be sacrificed to the cause.
So into the oven it went and out it came. And onto the Shabbos table, one hour later. My family chewed politely. “Hmm…” said my husband. “It’s nice…but it doesn’t really taste of challah. It tastes of scone.” And so it did. I’d made a massive crumbly scone.
He showed me a picture of the challah made by our friend Jonny. Plaited perfection. Huh. Which recipe did he use? “Waitrose.”
“Anyone can buy challah from Waitrose!” I huffed. “No, the recipe came from Waitrose.”
The next week I was determined to be prepared and organised, to get cooking early. My sister (a true balaboosta) had advised me to whip it out of the oven a bit early, to avoid sconification, I’d worked out that you needed three times as much fresh yeast as dried. What could go wrong?
Everything, as it turned out. It was lockdown meltdown week and also very hot. Tempers rose. A lunchtime row went on for hours. By the time I got to challah baking, it was late afternoon and my concentration was shattered. I flung the ingredients together, kneaded furiously, put it to prove — and then couldn’t remember if I’d added oil to the mix. I don’t recommend trying to add oil to dough at the proving stage. It was the slipperiest beast to plait and the make up brush started shedding hair. So it went into the oven, glistening and hairy, dotted with lice-like sesame. But it came out blonde and beautiful. And it was delicious…right until we got to the mid section which was completely raw.
Week three. I thought I knew what I was doing. But my putty yeast, after three weeks in the fridge, felt a little different. Less squidgy. More Audrey from Little Shop of Horrors. The dough stuck to everything, phone, flour packet, my glasses, my hair. And the strand sausages had a mind of their own. It was like trying to plait a crazed live octopus. Eventually I wrestled it into the oven and when it came out…well, it wasn’t the best shape to grace a Shabbos table. Way too rude.
It tasted great though. Best yet. Even though slicing it felt a little like I was on Game of Thrones.
Next week, I’m going for three-strands and my sister’s dough recipe. Or maybe Waitrose’s. Making challah, despite all, turns out to be a joy.
