easter bread: once more, with feeling

this has been going on in my family for a long time, making easter bread for family and friends. and by a long time, I mean 70 years at least, possibly longer. it’s not the same recipe, or the same recipients, or lord knows the same method. but still, every holy saturday since I could ring a doorbell and smile, I have delivered homemade bread. this year was my favorite. tell you why.

wait, first the backstory: my paternal grandmother baked easter bread, then my dad took over, then my sister and I took over from him. at first we helped and watched. after a few years dad was like the foreman, coming in just to knead and supervise. once I could knead, it was all my sister and me.

the recipe we made, called easter basket bread, came from a mid-century Time-Life cookbook. and true to mid-century cooking, it featured shortcuts, like the addition of lemon pudding mix instead of actual lemons. the result was yeasty, faintly lemony, and had a beautiful golden color. this was the family easter bread for a good 30 years, delivered piping hot. (more on that later.)

it didn’t always go well. my sister and I had a slogan we used as a starting-pistol shot to begin work: ‘marisa, scald the milk.’ well, I usually burned the first batch and annihilated a pan doing it. soon my mom got wise, running into the kitchen and shrieking,  ‘stop!’ in enough time to hand me a crappy pan to use instead of her fancy all-clads.

then there was the year mom misread the pudding packages and got the kind without sugar. we didn’t know until we tasted it. the resulting loaves were a gift to the food bank. it was okay, but it wasn’t easter bread. our hungry friends and family had their little noses pressed against their windows that morning, waiting, when we called to apologize and to tell them to expect bread the following day. already on a roll (har har), we banged out another double batch within a couple of hours. that mishap was thereafter dubbed ‘the pudding incident’.

but cutting the dough into strips, braiding it, and tucking in really fresh eggs brought by my uncle, a food inspector for the state—this was a good time. late at night, so doused in flour we’d look like the walking dead (and often so tired we’d feel like it, too), the loaves went night-night under our old sleeping bags. in the morning we’d lift back the covers for the big reveal: plumped-up bread ready to be brushed liberally with egg wash and sprinkled with nonpareils. The latter bounces uncontrollably onto the counter, the kitchen floor, and pretty much everywhere, amusing the dog and inciting groans from my mom, who didn’t relish the thought of discovering them all over the house like itty-bitty easter eggs.

as each batch came out of the oven, my sister and I delivered our mahogany-brown wonders on foot, and later, by car. now, dad was picky about everyone getting their bread hot, which wouldn’t have been a great trick, considering all of the recipients lived in our 900-resident town. but mrs. wengler, ever-gracious, always asked us in to sit and catch up, and auntie rosemary was a warm and loving chatterbox who never wanted us to leave. we were always in a rush, knowing dad was home, grousing about us getting back to deliver the rest hot. hurry! hurry!

that’s how it was until 2004, after which my then-husband and I found a new recipe and took over, spreading gooey chocolate joy near and far. it’s a babka recipe from my pal martha that I took some liberties with, adding intense saigon cinnamon instead of regular, and shaping loaves into my family’s traditional ring.

but this was my first year going it solo. I made it slowly and enjoyed the unique tactile experience that is making bread from scratch. then I packed it all up and took off in the drizzle. (it’s always drizzling on holy saturday morning. always.)

who gets bread now? sadly, mrs. wengler has passed on, but mr. wengler anticipates it as much as ever. he has been opening the door to someone in my family—at the same house—every holy saturday morning since 1969. my cousins, who grew up eating our easter bread and all of whom live locally, tell me they can’t wait for it. one said it best of all: ‘life is so crazy…this is one thing we can count on, and look forward to.’

but I promised to tell you why this year was my favorite. it’s because I didn’t worry about whether the bread was hot. instead, I let the extra loaves wait nicely in my backseat while I stood in assorted kitchens for an hour or more, laughing, yammering, and generally having an awesome time. we talked about what’s going on now, what went on in the past, telling new jokes and old stories. it was like reapplying glue to a bond. I left the house at 9 and didn’t get back until early afternoon. and that’s when I got it—I really got it: that it’s not about the bread being hot. it’s not even about the bread.

Vintage springform for Easter bread.

Chocolate-cinnamon babka.