"There are people in the world so hungry, that God cannot appear to them except in the form of bread."
As a child I would wander into the kitchen when I caught the scent of yeast. Every Thursday my mother would roll up her sleeves, gather her ingredients, and prepare to make our weekly tradition of Sabbath bread. My brother and I were fortunate enough to be included in this process. She would clear off the kitchen table, spread flour across and give us each our own small ball of dough. The sound of her bracelets jingling as she showed us how to push the dough away and then bring it back towards us, the kneading process. As we practiced kneading our own bits of dough she would talk to us about our week, about school, about family. It was a time to reflect. A time to bond with each other and with our own thoughts. As our challahs baked in the oven, we were embraced by the smells and feel of the evening. Fast forward to today. Now with my own children at my own table, I go through the same process, pushing the dough out, bringing it back in, discussing our week, our lives, our relationships. It was this tradition that brought me to our local farmer's market. This recipe, brought to America from Russia in a small wooden box by my grandmother, taught to my mother, taught to me, taught to my children, needed to be shared. Using local ingredients, combining the traditions of my childhood with the traditions of my husband's childhood, we came up with new recipes and delicious combinations that are available each week.