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“What are we making?” Kara selects a red-and-white checkered apron, looping it over her head and tying it around her waist.
“Challah, sourdough, cookies, and sufganiyot.”
Kara holds up a finger. “I’m not familiar with that last one.”
“Deep fried doughnuts,” I explain.
“That comes later,” Mami says. “First, the challah dough.”
I know what our job is there, so I stand back and let Mami make the dough until the consistency is just right. Then the bowl is turned out onto the floured counter, and Mami leaves me to instruct Kara on kneading while she washes the bowl for the second batch.
Soon, Kara and I each have a blob of dough and are massaging and flipping, massaging and flipping.
“Look what we’re making today.” Mami thrusts a paper in front of my face while I knead. “Aren’t these cute?”
I pull back so I don’t go cross-eyed and read. “Stuffed dreidel cookies? Where did you find this?”
“Pinterest, of course. Don’t you think Noah will love them? I bought M&Ms to stuff them with.”
Kara leans over to peer at the paper too. “Are the dreidels made with sugar cookies?”
“Yes, we’ll work on those next.”
Once the dough is smooth, we leave it to rise. Mami has us mix the sugar cookie dough next, and Kara and I work side by side, leaning over the counter using cookie cutters to make Star-of-David-, menorah-, and dreidel-shaped cookies. Mami takes our scraps, rerolls them, and cuts the pieces she needs for the stuffed dreidels.
Then I show Kara how to divide the challah dough into four lumps and roll them out into strands. Mami is at the stove, humming while she stirs the jelly filling for the sufganiyot.
“Top, middle. Top, middle,” Kara mutters while braiding. “This reminds me of a star bread I made once, where you layer dough and then slice it and twist the edges. It was Instagrammable but not that tasty. Okay, how is yours looking so puffy? Did I do something wrong?”
I look down at Kara’s loaf. It’s a little...lean.
“It’s fine. Maybe next time, not so tight on the braids, yes?”
I show her how to tuck the end, and our doughy, clammy hands bump when we both reach to tuck the top under too. I let Kara work, and she braids her fingers together, using her forearms to squish the dough into a shorter, fatter loaf.
I swat her hands away. “Don’t mess with it too much. It’ll be fine.”
Kara crosses her arms over her chest and leans her hip against the counter. “Look at you, Mr. Good with His Hands.”
My mom chortles, and Kara flushes. “Good with his hands with bread! Not anything else! That’s not what I meant.”
Juna enters the kitchen, reaching past us to the fridge. “Is Mami making sex jokes already?”
“She didn’t make the sex joke,” Kara protests.
“Then who made the sex joke?”
“It wasn’t a sex joke!”
My sister smirks. “Sure.” She retreats back to the front room with her bottle of juice. I know better than to protest anything with her and Mami.
“Less sex jokes,” Mami says, shoving a plastic bin of food coloring into Kara’s hands. “More icing.”
9
Kara
Who knew bakingcookies could be so artistic? They aren’t with my family.
