When it comes to baking, sweets are my forte. Cookies, cakes, the occasional pie – you get it. But when it comes to bread – real bread, that is, not a banana or zucchini one – not so much. And for good reason. On one occasion, I used water that was too hot and killed the yeast. Other times, the yeast has just not risen to the occasion. It seems that whenever I try, no matter how closely I stick to the recipe, I cannot seem to tame the beast made with yeast. To wit:

Having a whole afternoon to myself the other day, I thought it might be the perfect time to try my hand (again) at making challah. This wasn’t my first attempt, but I had lost the previous recipe and decided to try a new one. From what I remember of the first one, the results were just so-so; not terrible, but certainly not delicious enough to bother with again. This new recipe sounded good, though, so yeast and flour and eggs and sugar (to feed those little yeast beasts) in hand, I set forth.

This time the yeast acted appropriately. Dissolved in the perfect temperature of H2O with the right amount of sugar to nibble on, it produced a thick, robust foam. So far, so good (or so I thought).

Then there was the standoff with the dough versus my stand mixer. I love my mixer for many reasons – it’s red; it’s helped me create countless yummy desserts over the past 20 years; it’s red; it never lets me down; it’s red; and I feel like a star using it. I should preface this by saying that I usually don’t use the lever that locks the top part of the mixer in place because I often have to stop and scrape down the bowl. Yesterday was no exception. Except.

Except that once the dough collected around the dough-hook attachment as a ball (an enormous ball, I should say), the mixer began to buck like a bronco under its weight. Quickly, I moved the dough back into the bowl and put the locking lever in place, but to no avail. A few more times around (this was all on low speed, mind you) and the dough ball collected again (as the recipe said that it should), and the mixer went into spasms again, the top part bouncing up and down and the entire piece of equipment starting to do the moonwalk across my countertop. Uh-oh.

Turning the dough onto a floured surface and kneading it went smoothly. Then into an oiled bowl, covered with a clean kitchen towel, and on to the rising process. Like most recipes, this one said that the dough would double in size. Turns out, that depends on one’s definition of “double.” If you think it means double the size of the ball of dough you put in the bowl, that answer would be reasonable; apparently, though, it would be wrong. If you think it means that the dough would have grown to quadruple its volume, you would be correct (although we really need to work on why you’d think that).

The ball of dough had, indeed, grown by four sizes (the Grinch’s heart grew by ten, so I’ll cut my losses where I can). It also seemed to be particularly redolent with that usually nice, comforting smell of bread as it rises – a scent that seemed a bit more pungent than usual. (Foreshadowing of trouble ahead.)

Once the dough had been punched down, it was time to braid and let it rest, to allow it to double (?) in size yet again. My braiding was beautiful, if I say so myself, and as I tucked the loaf under its kitchen-towel blanket, I hoped that it would have enough oomph still in it to rise the right amount. Surely, I thought, it must have used up all of its rising power earlier. Wrong.

When I came back into the kitchen after the prescribed time, I saw that the challah had practically outgrown its towel covering and was creeping off the edges of the cookie sheet it was sitting on (my largest cookie sheet, one that was bigger than the recipe recommended). I had to cut off the ends of the loaf and re-curl the edges under to make it fit. As I slid the giant challah into the oven, I was already planning on which neighbors I’d have to share it with – it was either that, or stock my freezer with a months-long supply. Or stock up on cream cheese. Lots and lots of cream cheese. (All the while, images of Lucy and Ethel with that uncontrollably growing, never-ending bread forcing its way out of the oven flashed through my mind.)

When it was through baking, the challah looked gorgeous. Jewish-cookbook ready. Magazine-spread delectable. Which only goes to show you that you can’t judge a bread by its cover. Because after I let it cool – and I was so careful to let it cool completely as the recipe directed – and sliced into it, all hell (chall?) broke loose. The challah smelled like a brewery.

The odor of alcohol was overwhelming. While the texture of the bread was fine, the taste wasn’t. B. gamely tried a slice, resulting in a tummy ache soon after. As for me, the aroma was so off-putting that I could only manage a bite. And that was the end of that.

Trying to figure out what went wrong, I combed through the recipe word by word but could find nothing. I had followed the instructions to the letter – both ingredients-wise and step-by-step-wise – but I couldn’t see where or how I might have strayed. The only thing I could figure out, after checking other challah recipes, is that this one called for an inordinately larger amount of yeast than many others. Way, way more.

Aha. Way more yeast = way more rising = way more fermentation. Which equals a challah that reeked like a beer hall. No way out around that one.

Challah-balloo.

©2023 Claudia Grossman