When most people think of a challah, they think of the warmth and satisfaction of a fresh loaf of Shabbat bread. But that loaf is not the challah. The loaf of bread we eat is what is left over after the challah, a lump of dough removed from the loaf, is removed after the first mixing. When I bake bread for Shabbat, and I take the challah from the loaf, I like to burn it in my oven. It stinks when it burns, and permeates the air of my home and all the furnishings and all the rugs with the smell.
When my friend comes into my house while I am burning the challah from the loaf, she wrinkles her nose and says to me, "Why don't you burn that outside on your grill? It really smells bad, you know."
I know.
When I burn the challah every Erev Shabbat morning, and I smell the stench from my oven, I think back on the declaration I make when I take the small challah, and how that simple act defines, in so many ways, what it means to be a Jew: "This is the challah!" I say as take the piece, "It is the portion given to the Priests of the Temple, the portion that I cannot give today, and that I burn to remember the destruction of the Temple." The sweet bread that takes its name from what should have been an act of faith and love, the support of our priests, now bears the name of a weekly, painful reminder our mutual loss.
I usually put the dough ball directly on the bottom of the oven, where it will eventually catch fire, and I stop all my cooking while it burns. Soon, black smoke billows from my oven. I remove the hot, burned lump of dough and cool it on the counter. It is still curling with black smoke, and I have to contain my willingness to drench it with water to stop the horrible smoke. I breathe it in and make it part of me.
That stink, I think, is the stink of hate. It is the smell of the burning Temple, the smell of the Holocaust and the smell of a bombed bus. It is the scent of sadness and pain and loss. It is a smell I should never forget; I can't forget. I must remember it in order to prepare the next generation to protect themselves, sustain themselves through loss and to carry on.
I don't know the personal feeling of what it is to lose a loved one to hate, thank G-d, but I do know the collective sadness and loss that all Jews feel for every loss we have suffered. We have a very long memory for our enemies and our pain. The recent deaths of the Hatuel family of Katif -- a pregnant mother and wife and four girls -- hit me especially hard because I am a mother with children. But, to be frank, every Jewish death from hate is hard. It is as hard and black and hot as the lump of challah that I remove from my oven every week. What could have been nourishing and warm and life-giving and sweet is reduced to charcoal. It is a lesson for all of us. Out of the sweet loaf of our joy and rest, comes the pain and bitterness of hate and loss.
But I don't dwell on that. I can't. I am a Jew. There is Shabbat to prepare for, and the oven that was filled with smoke is soon at capacity with pies and cakes and, eventually, the loaves of bread themselves.
What was a stench becomes an overwhelming sweetness, and the declaration of sadness I made in the morning becomes a declaration of happiness as my sons enter the house and say, "It smells like Shabbat in here! It really smells sweet, you know."
I know.
When my friend comes into my house while I am burning the challah from the loaf, she wrinkles her nose and says to me, "Why don't you burn that outside on your grill? It really smells bad, you know."
I know.
When I burn the challah every Erev Shabbat morning, and I smell the stench from my oven, I think back on the declaration I make when I take the small challah, and how that simple act defines, in so many ways, what it means to be a Jew: "This is the challah!" I say as take the piece, "It is the portion given to the Priests of the Temple, the portion that I cannot give today, and that I burn to remember the destruction of the Temple." The sweet bread that takes its name from what should have been an act of faith and love, the support of our priests, now bears the name of a weekly, painful reminder our mutual loss.
I usually put the dough ball directly on the bottom of the oven, where it will eventually catch fire, and I stop all my cooking while it burns. Soon, black smoke billows from my oven. I remove the hot, burned lump of dough and cool it on the counter. It is still curling with black smoke, and I have to contain my willingness to drench it with water to stop the horrible smoke. I breathe it in and make it part of me.
That stink, I think, is the stink of hate. It is the smell of the burning Temple, the smell of the Holocaust and the smell of a bombed bus. It is the scent of sadness and pain and loss. It is a smell I should never forget; I can't forget. I must remember it in order to prepare the next generation to protect themselves, sustain themselves through loss and to carry on.
I don't know the personal feeling of what it is to lose a loved one to hate, thank G-d, but I do know the collective sadness and loss that all Jews feel for every loss we have suffered. We have a very long memory for our enemies and our pain. The recent deaths of the Hatuel family of Katif -- a pregnant mother and wife and four girls -- hit me especially hard because I am a mother with children. But, to be frank, every Jewish death from hate is hard. It is as hard and black and hot as the lump of challah that I remove from my oven every week. What could have been nourishing and warm and life-giving and sweet is reduced to charcoal. It is a lesson for all of us. Out of the sweet loaf of our joy and rest, comes the pain and bitterness of hate and loss.
But I don't dwell on that. I can't. I am a Jew. There is Shabbat to prepare for, and the oven that was filled with smoke is soon at capacity with pies and cakes and, eventually, the loaves of bread themselves.
What was a stench becomes an overwhelming sweetness, and the declaration of sadness I made in the morning becomes a declaration of happiness as my sons enter the house and say, "It smells like Shabbat in here! It really smells sweet, you know."
I know.