There’s something about challah that draws people in. It’s golden and glossy, a little sweet, and soft enough to pull apart with your hands. Traditionally baked for Shabbat and Jewish holidays, challah is rich in eggs and oil, giving it a fluffy interior and a light shine on top. During Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, it’s often shaped into a circle to represent the year coming full circle.
This year, I decided to bake my own challah for the High Holidays. I used The New York Times Cooking recipe “My Favorite Challah” as my base, tweaking it slightly to fit what I had in my kitchen and to build confidence in my baking skills. The recipe itself is straightforward: mix the ingredients, knead until smooth, let the dough rise until doubled in size, braid, rest again, brush with an egg wash, and bake until golden brown. On paper, it sounded easy enough. In practice?
Seattle in early fall is cold. That’s when I learned my first big challah lesson: ignore the clock and watch the dough. The recipe might say “let rise for one to two hours,” but in a chilly apartment, that’s wishful thinking. My dough barely moved during that time. Instead of giving up, I wrapped the bowl in a blanket and waited. It eventually doubled, it just needed more patience, maybe a space heater as well.
The second lesson came after my loaf cooled. It looked perfect: a shiny braid with a deep golden crust. But when I cut into it, it was… dry. Not inedible, but also not that soft, slightly elastic texture that makes challah so satisfying. After a little research and a few more attempts, I realized what my bread was missing: honey.
Honey adds both moisture and depth to the loaf. It keeps the crumb tender, balances the egg richness with a hint of floral sweetness, and helps the loaf stay soft for longer. The next time I baked it, I replaced the sugar with honey, and finally achieved that chewy, rich, almost buttery texture that challah is known for.
But even the best recipes sometimes go sideways. There were nights when the yeast didn’t cooperate or my “braid” dismantled in the oven. And that’s okay, because Seattle happens to have a place that makes up for all my baking experiments: Dingfelder’s Delicatessen.
If you’ve never been, Dingfelder’s is Jewish comfort food heaven. Their matzoh ball soup alone is reason enough to visit (or order in, if you’re a homebody like me), featuring hot chicken broth, tender vegetables, and matzoh balls that are perfectly fluffy in the center. I’ve eaten matzoh ball soup at the famous Katz’s Deli in New York, and I still think Dingfelder’s wins on flavor. Their challah bread is another standout: slightly sweet, buttery, and soft enough to make the best French toast ever. Now, when I crave that sweet-bread comfort but don’t have the time or energy to proof dough for half a day, I fall back to Dingfelder’s and grab a loaf (plus soup, always the soup).
Baking my own challah taught me a lot about patience, tradition, and how food connects people, even when it doesn’t turn out perfectly. There’s something special about trying, failing, and trying again. But there’s also something special about admitting that sometimes, someone else just does it better. Whether your challah comes from your oven or a deli on Capitol Hill, the magic is the same: it’s meant to be shared, preferably warm, with people you love, and a little butter on the side.