Blanche Bruce became the first Black man to ever be elected to the Senate, and gained support from even his staunchest rivals. His career, however, was not unmarked by controversy and mixed reviews. #DCHistory https://t.co/MRI8vwIw6l Blanche Bruce became the first Black man …
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 21, 2022
DC boasted numerous local bakeries in the early 20th century, and competition was stiff. What they didn’t know was that their downfall came from their own product in a new form: sliced bread. #DCHistory https://t.co/Mx1V0sLM9N DC boasted numerous local bakeries in the early …
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 21, 2022
Bert Shepard lost his leg during WWII, but never gave up on his dream to play major league baseball, but something else nagged at him all those years: who had saved him when his plane crashed in the first place? #DCHistory https://t.co/Zi75calNHx Bert Shepard lost his leg du…
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 21, 2022
Turning the Tidal Basin into a safe beach took thousands of dollars and years of petitions. And when it opened, only white residents were permitted to enjoy it. #DCHistory https://t.co/gsjzlyqNfv Turning the Tidal Basin into a safe beach took thousands of dollars and years o…
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 21, 2022
After completing the first Atlantic flight from New York to Paris, everyone wondered where Charles Lindbergh would stop upon his return. Luckily for DC, the pilot had chosen the capital as his first stop. #DCHistory https://t.co/Zb4rpo0hko After completing the first Atlantic…
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 21, 2022
Today in History - May 21 https://t.co/sASWvJaaXZ On May 21, 1796, attorney and statesman Reverdy Johnson was born in Annapolis, Maryland. Continue reading. Click here to search Today in History for other historic moments.
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 21, 2022
Quote of the Day: "We are all gifted. That is our inheritance." - Ethel Waters
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 21, 2022
Happy Friday! The vibrant colors of this 1900 map of what was then Alexandria County, Virginia caught our eye! Most of this area was renamed to Arlington County in 1920. Zoom in to see the names of landowners here: https://t.co/AK7mCn23oR https://t.co/t0UvexJ7tH Happy Friday!…
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 20, 2022
She might’ve been allowed to leave Monticello, but Harriet Hemings couldn’t live under her real name under the risk of being re-enslaved by her own father, Thomas Jefferson. #DCHistory #VAHistory https://t.co/uy5Hjc4YV5 She might’ve been allowed to leave Monticello, but Harr…
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 20, 2022
Takoma Park has quite the town mascot, and one that was not universally loved. Like it or not, Roscoe the Rooster would waltz around town as he pleased to the chagrin of residents and Animal Control alike. #MDHistory https://t.co/F9S2RPqXPj Takoma Park has quite the town mas…
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 20, 2022
In her long lifespan, Dolley Madison experienced the highs and lows of life as one of the First Ladies. Even in her death, she garnered massive crowds wishing to pay their respects. #DCHistory #VAHistory https://t.co/lNC4UJrBJr In her long lifespan, Dolley Madison experience…
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 20, 2022
Visiting DC for the first time, Zuni Ihamana We’wha was taken to numerous social gatherings. The portrayal of their visit and culture, however, reflected Native stereotypes by white writers and audiences. #DCHistory https://t.co/MqJmNbhbi9 Visiting DC for the first time, Zun…
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 20, 2022
Here are five stories that moved us this week, and the reasons why.
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Josh McColough | The Missouri Review | April 15th, 2022 | 5,508 words
I was drawn this week to a few reads about California road trips, including one on Joan Didion, as well as an essay by Josh McColough in The Missouri Review that recounts part of a West Coast road trip with his teenage daughter, when a road closure in Northern California leads to an unexpected delay. At one point in their journey, they approach a dangerous section of Highway 101 that’s prone to landslides — the Last Chance Grade — and must decide whether to wait until the highway is fixed, or turn around. “Sometimes in order to move forward, you have to stay put for a bit—one of the many lessons imparted to us from the virus,” writes McColough. And so they decide to wait, which opens up the space to be still: to notice all the tiny banana slugs on the forest floor, to ponder just how long it took for the old-growth redwoods to grow that tall, to watch the coastal fog creep inland and do its thing. Reading about their experience on this beautiful spot of earth made me feel small in a humbling yet positive way, and McColough makes poignant observations throughout about humanity, our vulnerable environment, and our place within it. I paused a number of times while reading to allow myself to feel sadness for our world, but also to feel joy — because how lucky are we, ultimately, to be able to live in such a place? “Our inability to see ourselves as tiny points on a much longer ecological or geological spectrum is our uniquely human blind spot,” he writes. “It’s where and how we fall short.” Take the time to read this thoughtful piece. —CLR
Laurie Penny | Penny Red | May 14th, 2022 | 1800 words
I love Eurovision. It is an annual four-hour extravaganza (yes, four!) that mercilessly drags me back and forth between tears and cackles of joy. (There is usually some drinking involved.) This year was no different — with the performances last Saturday ranging from a bonkers acid trip pop to beautiful ballads. I am not even sure what genre to call the entry of my home country, the United Kingdom, but the singer took some surprising linguistic liberties with the term “spaceman.” (Just to let you know, we came second, our best position in 25 years.) Anyhow, I digress, and Laurie Penny explains the madness much better than I can in this breezy, fun essay: “Every year, forty-something countries serve up musical interpretations of a theme that sounds like knockoff body spray – this year it’s The Sound of Beauty. Almost anything goes except subtext.” Eurovision voting tends to be a bit political — this year particularly so. Penny notes “It’s hard to get banned from Eurovision, but invading a neighboring country and massacring tens of thousands of people will do the trick.” Without Russia competing, Eurovision asks us, “What if, instead of killing each other, we all just got hammered and did karaoke?” Ukraine won Eurovision 2022 with a landslide public vote. I cried again. —CW
Will Di Novi | Hazlitt | May 16th, 2022 | 3,200 words
Vibrant. Countercultural. Places of rest. These aren’t descriptors that leap to mind when I think of alleys, the hidden veins of cities everywhere. At least, they weren’t until I read this ode to alleys by Will Di Novi. Inspired by an incident outside his apartment in downtown Toronto, Di Novi takes readers on a tender journey through these misunderstood urban spaces. That alleys are relegated in our vernacular to the category of things dark and dirty is a mistake — a classist and racist one. Throughout history, alleys have been sites where people without power and privilege “meet and make mischief,” Di Novi writes, “[a] city’s unofficial social laboratory.” He invites readers to look on alleys in their own burgs with fresh eyes. He hopes they’ll find pleasure, as he did, in witnessing “mundane wonders,” among them “the adolescent love notes scattered on the walls; the sun-bleached vines shaking in the breeze; the shadows of the power lines merging on the blacktop: fishing poles at noon, pyramids by dusk.” —SD
Kent Russell | Harper’s Magazine | May 11th, 2022 | 6,982 words
Like Kent Russell, I’ve always been a sucker for the otherworldly and occult. UFOs? Yes, please. Conspiracy theories about the reptoids living under the Denver airport? Put it in my veins. It’s in that spirit that I mainlined Russell’s long journey into the world of John R. King IV, a man who claims to have studied enough ancient grimoires to be able to communicate with demons. The journey isn’t fruitless, though neither is it fulfilling — which is exactly the point, I suppose, when you’re dealing with something that’s empirically unprovable. Yet, throughout, Russell renders King’s quiet insistence, and his own (remarkably sanguine) explorations into the world of dark forces, with a flair both literary and relatable. “Reading King,” he writes, “I felt myself vacillate between terror and wonder like a compass needle brought near a magnet. Here was a man who had punctured the airless dome of modern existence, and, what’s more, was really goddamned cocksure about it.” Put down the Ouija board and pick this up instead. —PR
Christian Wallace | Texas Monthly | May 11th, 2022 | 6,139 words
“This morning’s chore: Boots and three of his Stetsoned coworkers must round up some two dozen bulls scattered across a vast grazing pasture, drive them to a set of pens about a mile away, and load the one-ton beeves into a livestock trailer so they can be hauled to another division of the Four Sixes, the legendary West Texas ranch that sprawls across 260,000 acres…To an outsider, this might feel like a scene straight out of Lonesome Dove. For Boots, this is Tuesday morning. He’s repeated this task countless times—his career began during the Truman administration and has now spanned seven decades—but if given the chance to be doing anything on earth, this is what he would choose every time.” Now is probably a good time to mention that this particular Boots, out on a horse rounding up Angus bulls in rural Texas, is 89-years-old. While Boots (a.k.a Billy Milton O’Neal) has decades on me, I am at the age where I’m starting to think more about aging not just with grace, but also vitality and a side of sass. What are the keys to aging well? If you take some pointers from Boots in this superlative profile by Christian Wallace at Texas Monthly, aging well means not just doing what you love, but being intentional, and becoming part of a community of people who share your joy. Oh, and let’s not forget the dancing. “Boots and Nelda were happy together. Perhaps more than anywhere else, they found common ground on the dance floor. They would dance to country music, waltzes, and rags, and they loved to two-step.” —KS
Starliner Launches to Space Station via NASA https://t.co/sJfOqbKvli https://t.co/a8tEwEYTgd
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 20, 2022
Charles William Janson, along with many others apparently, had little praise for DC in his writings. His account titled, “The Stranger in America,” leaves little to be desired of the capital city. #DCHistory https://t.co/QxjYtwHj8H Charles William Janson, along with many oth…
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 20, 2022
Today in History - May 20 https://t.co/iNlCvoWj2C President Abraham Lincoln signed the Homestead Act on May 20, 1862. Continue reading. Click here to search Today in History for other historic moments.
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 20, 2022
Our latest blog post is just up; take a look! Explore a brief history of New York City’s elevated rail and subway lines with historic maps from our collections! Read the post here: https://t.co/nFTL49jSH0 https://t.co/xWHYSPNu3d Our latest blog post is just up; take a look! E…
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 19, 2022
Before he moved to the White House, President John F. Kennedy lived at numerous Georgetown addresses. According to household staff, he wasn’t the tidiest resident. #DCHistory https://t.co/bq2i7iWXaO Before he moved to the White House, President John F. Kennedy lived at numer…
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 19, 2022
Boeing’s Starliner on the Pad via NASA https://t.co/fVWud2Oqzh https://t.co/qk0Hn5f07O
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 19, 2022
While it was hastily constructed and had flaws, Fort Ward was built to protect DC from Confederate attack. It was one of 68 forts meant for the same purpose. #DCHistory #VAHistory https://t.co/tm5Z6jQFoi While it was hastily constructed and had flaws, Fort Ward was built to …
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 19, 2022
The Lincoln Memorial is 100 years old this month. Here are three vintage postcards from the 1920s and 1930s. @NationalMallNPS https://t.co/paEHFE0IsZ The Lincoln Memorial is 100 years old this month. Here are three vintage postcards from the 1920s and 1930s. @NationalMallNPS …
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 19, 2022
Both bands might’ve been still reaching for stardom, but the crowds at Merriweather Post Pavillion proved that both Led Zeppelin and The Who were rockstars in the making. #MDHistory https://t.co/yzl8Z5ZfN3 Both bands might’ve been still reaching for stardom, but the crowds a…
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 19, 2022
Today in History - May 19 https://t.co/jRHtQKfDLW Johns Hopkins was born to a Quaker family on May 19, 1795, in Anne Arundel County, Maryland. Continue reading. On May 19, 1863, General Ulysses S. Grant attempted to take the Confederate stronghold at Vicksburg, Mississippi.…
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 19, 2022
Benjamin Dubow | Longreads | May 2022 | 16 minutes (4,536 words)
Reader note: Click the footnote numbers to jump to note; from there, click the numbers again to return to the story.
Early on Friday mornings, when the air still whispers with the night, I make sure to feed Orlando before heading out to the community farm.
Back when I first got started with starters, I used to weigh out the flour(s)1 and water to ensure an equal ratio, but nowadays I just eyeball it. Orlando doesn’t seem to mind — in fact, I like to think they welcome the small surprises.
Sometimes these alterations are intentional. The crucial thing is to give him ample time to mature, and I learned from Nate that wetter cultures ferment more quickly.2 So, if I think we’ll be in a rush later, I’ll feed Orlando a more liquid diet. More often than not, these Friday morning feedings are rather on the wetter side — for when are the hours before Shabbat ever not a rush?
As the cold weather comes, I must pay closer attention to temperature. I wiggle my fingers under the tap until I feel the water warm, careful that it doesn’t get so hot to scald the baby starter. This added warmth gives her a head start, yes it does.
…
The word challah, which comes from a root meaning round (suggesting the shape), originally denoted the portion of bread that Jews were commanded to reserve for the kohanim, the priests who worked and lived in the Temple and relied on such gifts for their sustenance; the challah, as such, was supposed to be of highest quality, a bread befitting a servant of God.
After the Second Temple’s destruction and the scattering of its priests, the Sages commemorated the now-obsolete practice by instituting a substitute: a portion of dough from the people’s daily bread would be removed and burned. (The root word might alternatively mean hollow, or pierced. An empty space.) This sacrificial portion was then called the challah.
It always seemed odd to me that we’d memorialize destruction with yet more destruction. As though the jobless and houseless among us are no longer hungry. As though we can afford the waste.3
…
Orlando and I bake bread fairly often — generally at least twice a week. One of these (or sometimes two, if I’m baking a double batch to share with a friend) will be a country-style loaf, the kind you might picture when you think of sourdough.4 I eat some of this fresh, save a good hunk for the following day, and usually freeze the rest, in slices, so that I can throw some in the oven as needed. This way, none of it goes stale.
But our Friday bake is a different sort entirely, closer to a brioche than the traditional country-style. And though challah made with sourdough starter is not very common these days, this bread we make is deeply traditional, with a long history that predates commercial yeast. All challah was once made with the help of a symbiotic culture. This recipe of ours is not a new creation; it is a re-creation. A return-together.
These Sabbath loaves (always plural) I do not freeze. Both are needed, whole, to grace the evening’s table. This, too, a part of the tradition.
…
Ironically, I hardly ever made challah before moving to Ames, Iowa. (Ironic because I come from New York, the center of American Jewry, while here in the heartland I am a stranger in a foreign land.) Certainly not with any regularity, not as I do here nearly every Friday. I have a couple of theories why.
Theory #1: Back home I’m surrounded by a Tradition that is there whether I show up or not. I feel it in the Judaica, the sefarim and mezuzot that line the bookshelves and mark the doorways of our house. I feel it when my Zeide asks if I’m going with him to shul the next day for holiday prayers, which, of course I do if he asks (which he knows, and, bless his heart, only asks once per holiday). I feel it in the pre-Shabbat cooking and showering frenzy and the post-candle-lighting, pre-dinner regroup over glasses of wine and giggles that I’m blessed to partake in with the women of the house now that I’m rarely bothered to go to Friday evening prayers with the men. I feel it in that special quality of quiet that blankets our den on a winter’s Sabbath night when dinner is done by eight and the rest of the family goes to sleep soon after and I am alone on the couch, nestled in the favored corner spot, book in hand, with hours to relax into the cozy embrace of that holy darkness.
What I’m saying is, in that already suffused space, I don’t feel the need to perfume the air around me with the sweet scent of the ceremonial Sabbath bread. But here, in Ames, Iowa, there is a hollow, an empty space. A void I need to fill.
…
It’s only in the past 400 years or so the term has come to designate the bread that actually makes it to the Shabbos5 table — fairly recent in the history of our Tradition. Nowadays, the word “challah” is understood to refer to a specific style, the familiar braided loaf, which Ashkenazi Jews in Central Europe.6
Daily bread in that region was mostly made of rye, and was dark, coarse, and heavy — what those of us who don’t rely on it for survival might quaintly call “rustic.” But Shabbos called for something special, so my forebears would splurge on fine white flour and expensive sugar and further enrich the dough with eggs and oil for a bread befitting the holy day. Two loaves (representing the two portions of manna for the Sabbath)7 of six strands each (to represent the 12 showbreads baked daily for the Temple, back when the Temple stood) with seeds on top; the seeds represent abundance and further commemorate the manna that fell, which supposedly resembled coriander seed. We’re told it tasted of honey.
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This particular style of challah quickly spread to Jewish communities around Europe and was brought to America and Palestine when many of them immigrated en masse toward the end of the 19th and beginning of the 20th centuries in order to escape the latest round of worsening violence.
…
With most of my breads I weigh out the dough ingredients, but for some reason I invariably use volumetric measurements for challah. This is less precise, borderline blasphemy in the world of serious baking, but I don’t question this decision. It just feels right — maybe because the measuring cups I use, old tin things I found buried amid basement clutter, once belonged to my grandmother.
First, I proof a bit of active dry yeast to help the starter along: one half-cup (approximate) of warm-hot water, finger-tested, plus one teaspoon of sugar and one of the yeast.8 I have a special bowl I use for this, a little plastic guy I used to eat cereal from as a kid. It’s got a striped lavender-and-purple rim and a picture of Tigger (yes, of Winnie the Pooh fame) on the bottom, and it’s perfect.
While the yeast is waking up, I fill the mixing bowl (big, metal, Tiggerless) with the rest of the ingredients: three cups all-purpose flour, two cups bread flour (for added strength), a half-cup of sugar, a baby palm of salt, a bit more than half a cup of oil (neutral, unless I run out and only have olive), five farm-fresh eggs, and a healthy heaping of Orlando, who by this point is doubled in size and lofty with gas.9
Once the dehydrated yeast has reanimated and regained its vigor, and the image of Tigger is wholly obscured by the foaming, I add the frothy brew to the bowl and mix until all the ingredients come together. If we have time, I’ll let the dough rest for a few minutes to make the next step easier.
…
Theory #1a: The air back home is so thick it can be suffocating, and the expectation to perform my Jewish identity in a way that makes sense to my family (“Benjamin, please put a yarmulke on your head.” As though that’s what’s important here.) precludes a deeper breath.
I can understand that such things are actually important to some, that part of what being Jewish means to them is covering your head at the Shabbos table (if you’re a man, that is — these head coverings are a gendered practice, and this, too, is part of it). I can, if I really wanted to, object. Make a stink. But then the air would smell of nothing else, and nobody would be happy. So, I do it. I put on the skullcap for the sake of shalom bayit,10 quickly forget about it, and in such ways are the particular contours of my individual identity forced to fit the familiar mold.
But here, in Ames, where there is room for me to stretch my lungs and fully breathe, I do. This is what breathing on a Friday looks like for me.
…
Then, I knead. And knead. When I think I’m done kneading, I knead some more. At least 10 minutes of kneading. This step is crucial to a soft and fluffy challah, both in how it builds up the gluten into long, strong, supple strands that are evident in the final product, and because the kneading — a deep-tissue dough massage — is where much of the love comes in.11
When the kneading is done, I smear the inside of the bowl with a film of oil, flip the dough around to coat, then cover with a much-reused plastic shopping bag (a thick yellow one from the Gourmet Glatt in Cedarhurst, ideally) and let the dough rise for an hour.
In the colder months, I must remember to put it someplace warm and cozy so the yeasts don’t get sluggish. I’ve found that the oven, turned off but for the light (incandescent), is a good place for this.
…
The second loaf is rarely finished, and often it’s barely begun. Challah is delicious, but it’s only the first course of the celebratory Sabbath meals, and those who know what’s in store know to save room for the rest.
This presents an issue, as I find that our challah tends to go stale pretty quickly — which is somewhat surprising, given the enrichments in the dough. But on the other hand, this does seem rather appropriate, given challah’s provenance.12
Leftover challah makes for excellent paninis or grilled cheese or slathered sandwiches stuffed with slaw and sliced meats. But in the days following, I usually just have hunks of it with leftover tahina for a snack. Sometimes, on a wine-fueled whim, I’ll give it to one of my guests to take home.
The important thing is that it does not go to waste. God forbid we waste this holy bread.
…
Jews from outside of Europe — Iraqi Jews or Maghrebi Jews or Yemenite Jews or Syrian Jews or Persian Jews, et cetera — would probably not have recognized the now-iconic braided loaf; they most likely encountered it for the first time in America or Israel in the mid 20th century when they, too, were forced to leave their homes under threat of violence.
(Something you should know about being Jewish, regardless of origin: Though this threat of violence can go dormant for a while, it never fully disappears. It hides, under the table, behind the curtains, in the dark corners of the room. Even in apparent absence, the violence lurks; the threat looms always in our minds, like a cancer in remission. Whatever comfort and security, whatever wealth we now enjoy may someday vanish in a night of broken glass, and once again we will be forced to find new homes. Things like challah, though, we can take with us. This is part of what we mean by Tradition.)
The Sabbath breads from these various Jewish communities were often the same as their weekday flatbreads (which depended on the region), sometimes with sesame or other seeds sprinkled on the surface to signify the manna. Many adopted the braided loaf after relocating but kept their traditions of serving the bread alongside a spread of dips, which many Ashkenazi Jews (my family included) adopted in turn.
…
Theory #2: Challah, already really good by itself, goes perfectly with the Friday night dip(s). They elevate each other. And while I admire the local co-op baker’s bread prowess and appreciate that they put out fresh challah on Fridays so their patrons can enjoy their challah French toast or challah bread pudding or whatever Iowans like to do with our bread outside the appropriate cultural context of the Sabbath meal, their version doesn’t taste quite right to me. Too sweet, especially once tahina or hummus get involved. Maybe it’s because their machines knead without heed to everthreats of violence and forget to add my people’s pain. Tears, you know, are quite salty.
…
Orlando and I have been working on this challah recipe since we moved to Ames two summers ago. I started with other recipes, including my sister’s and Joan Nathan’s, and tasted what they were about. Then, we tinkered.
To make the bread more tender, I’ve added more oil, a bit more sugar, a couple more eggs — and good ones at that. I try to use the best eggs I can find, eggs befitting a holy bread. The ones I get from Ron & Kristine up in Hubbard from chickens raised on Central Iowan pasture beam with sunlight transmuted into liquid gold. The yolks are nearly orange (the product of their foraged, insect-heavy diet) and color the dough so bright a yellow it looks as though I’ve added turmeric. Now, when I make challah with other eggs — even the nice ones I sometimes get from the co-op when my poultry people are out — the dough looks sad and wan by comparison. Unilluminated.
Then, of course, there is the added component of Orlando, whose presence in this Sabbath bread brings home for me the concept of shalom, though I can’t tell you exactly why that is the case. (Shalom means peace, shalom means welfare.) Only that the feeling I get when we bake together, and especially when we bake challah together, is the same sort of feeling I get when I’m home with my family for Shabbos. (Shalom means wholeness, means harmony.) This, too, I cannot quite describe. Just that I feel a particular warmth in my heart and stomach, cheeks and toes. (Shalom is also used as a salutation — on the Sabbath, for instance, we say: Shabbat shalom.)
I think we’re pretty darn close to where it wants to be. In distinction to our usual sourdough loaf, our challah has a soft crust (though it still could be even softer) and a finer, closer crumb, the lattice of strands more braided pillow than agglutinated web.
…
The holy grail of challah is Ostrovitsky’s. Located on Avenue J and 12th in the heart of Midwood, Brooklyn, the store is just a few blocks down from where my Bube and Zeide live — where my great-grandmother lived before — and not too far from where my siblings grew up until I was born and my family moved to Long Island.
Bube and Zeide bring Ostrovitsky challah whenever they come for Shabbat or the holidays, and every time it’s perfect. Their recipe is a variant from the western German Jews known as vassar challah, water challah, and is made without eggs or oil. It’s impossibly fluffy, soft as a cotton ball and nearly as white as one, too. Nothing in the world tastes as good with tahina.
One day, Orlando and I may try to replicate it. For now, though, I’m content to have Ostrovitsky’s when I go home for the holidays (though last time I was home, Bube did offer to ship me some).13 In the meantime, while I have access to these gorgeous eggs, we’ll keep making our more cakey eier challah. It’s a big hit at my Shabbat dinners here in Ames.
…
After the dough has doubled in size, I punch it down, divide in two, then in sixths for a total of 12. Each portion gets rolled into a long, tapered rope. Which, too, is a development: After many lopsided loaves, I’ve found that the tapered tops help keep the braid evenly elliptical as I pull the ductile strands across each other.
I braid them so that there is a prominent ridge of doughy hummocks just left of center, rather than the usual French-style braid with its disappearing valley. This is just a personal preference.
An egg wash for each, another covered rest.
…
Theory #3: My friends here like our challah, and I like giving them a familiar comfort. A reason to look forward to Shabbat. And while the traditional Friday night feast — a celebration of abundance where, in good times, there ought to be enough for everyone to have seconds and thirds (You like it? Please, have more!), where there’s no fear of running out and no problem welcoming last-minute guests (Yes, of course! Don’t worry, there’s plenty to eat!)14 — would probably be reason enough for my Ames friend-family to anticipate these meals, they would be incomplete if not crowned by the glory of this Sabbath bread.
…
Once the braided loaves have risen the right amount (the precise timing of this step, dependent on temperature, et al., is another of the things we’re still playing with), they get another egg wash. I then top them with my flashy six-seed blend of cumin, caraway, fennel, white poppy, and black sesame (I started using that last baffling duo as a Purim stunt last year and it stuck),15 and nigella, and into the oven they go. Eighteen minutes at 350 degrees, turn them around, and continue to bake until the doubly washed crust has reached the proper golden-brown color — about 10 to 12 more minutes. It’s better to underbake than over; we want the crust to be soft.
The smell during this period is intoxicating — sweet bread aromas mingled with the mysteries of toasted spice — and fills my whole house with the scent of Shabbat. They come out steaming, and I juggle the too-hot loaves onto a rack to cool until we’re ready to eat.
…
It took me a long time to understand this gift from my Tradition. For much of my childhood, Shabbos was a time of No, a period in which all the fun and exciting things were off-limits, muktsuh.16 Eventually, though — once I adopted the family practice of bunkering down on the den couch with a book, after I relearned the delight of the post-lunch nap (a delight that I had known as a toddler then foolishly forgot for a dozen years or so) — I began to glimpse the promise of Shabbat.
It is not a time of No, I now realize. It is, rather, a Yes so radical that my hypnotized mind struggled to see this affirmation which challenges the priorities of our modern world and forces a reckoning with what we consider most important to our lives. Shabbat is a Yes to family, to community, to togetherness; it is a Yes to good food slowly and carefully prepared; it is a Yes to rest, to giving our selves time to breathe in the company of other breathing bodies given space, ideally, to be their precious selves.
Every week, everything pauses. And in this sacred space-in-time,17 removed from the concerns of the workweek and the distractions of modern technology, we are enabled to sit down at the table and break bread with our loved ones. Oh yes, Shabbos is a gift indeed.
…
My guests begin to arrive a bit before seven and gradually trickle in. I’ll pop on out, glass in hand, to hug and say hello and offer them glasses so they can drink the wine the previous guest brought while I finish up in the kitchen. Sometimes folks will congregate by the kitchen doorway and half-watch me scurry around, but now that the cold weather is here and the fireplace lit, that’s the obvious gathering place.
I do enjoy having an audience, it’s true. But I’ve learned that it’s even more satisfying to be alone in my kitchen-cave and hear the heartwarming chorus of hellos and how’ve-you-beens as more friends arrive, grab a drink, and gather by the fire to unwind and warm. (Heart, stomach, cheeks, toes.)
When I’m done prepping, I refill my glass and join them. The light from the fire mingles with the light from the Shabbat candles that burn just above on the lintel in the olivewood candlesticks my mother gave me on my last visit home, and these colliding firelights catch in my friends’ bright eyes, in our raised glasses. Eventually, when the moment feels right, I invite them to the table where our challah rests.18
There is a blessing my people say over our bread, thanking God for the gift of it. And though I’ve moved away from much of the ritual trappings of my Tradition, layered as they are in language that does not speak to me, I do love this sentiment of gratitude.
So, instead of thanking an omnipotent but troublesomely transcendent deity, I simply express my thanks. It goes something like this:
[Lifting both challot in my hands] I am grateful for all of you, my friends; I am grateful for (insert some wonder of the week and/or relief that a stressful period has passed); and I am grateful for this bread.
Then, I pull a loaf apart. The braided ropes come apart at the seams as the strands of gluten stretch and tear, and the steam still inside the bread rises above the table like an offering. I rip off a hunk, pass the halves to either side of me, dip, and take a bite.
***
Benjamin Dubow is a writer, cook (sometimes chef), and all-around food and nature nerd from New York. He currently lives in Ames, Iowa, where he’s pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing & Environment at Iowa State and working on a novel.
Editor: Peter Rubin
Copy Editor: Cheri Lucas Rowlands
Footnotes
1 After much experimentation, we (Orlando and I) have found that a blend of flours works best: all-purpose, dark rye, and sprouted wheat is the currently favored combination. It seems the sprouted wheat is especially nutritious, for humans and sourdough alike.
2 The rate of sourdough maturation after feeding depends on a number of other factors as well, most notably the types of flours, the qualities of the water, the strength & diversity of the culture, and the ambient temperature.
3 The root for challah, ×—–ל–ל, also bears a striking resemblance to the word chillul, which means desecration.
4 The kind with a deeply colored crust that cracks or even shatters as you bite through into custardy, cave-shot crumb. The kind with three days’ worth of lactic acidity and complex esters (thank you, bacteria; thank you, yeasts) that makes your mouth water as you inhale and chew and gradually discover a more resonant note, which makes your mouth salivate even more, enzymatically unlocking yet deeper, more surprising tones, and so on, until with a bittersweet goodbye you swallow and it’s gone.
5 Pronounced SHAB-es, this is the Yiddish form of “Shabbat,” and the more common term where I’m from. I use these interchangeably, depending on how I feel and/or aesthetic considerations. Don’t read into it too much.
6 According to the writer Gil Marks, to whom I am indebted for much of this historical information, this bread was a specialty of southern Germany, where it was called berchisbrod, and originated as a pagan practice: Ancient tribes in the region would prepare variously shaped loaves (often in animal forms) in honor of the winter solstice. This tradition continued after the adoption of Christianity, and new shapes were added. One such shape, made with a twisted or braided dough, was meant to ward off the wrath of a Teutonic witch-demon, a crone with matted, twisted hair called Berchta or Holle. While it’s not likely that German Jews were much involved with this malevolent spirit, the bread was quite attractive and the names made sense: Berchta sounds like the Hebrew word for blessing (bracha), and Holle is just some phlegm away from challah.
7 On Shabbat, all labor was forbidden, including the daily manna gathering and preparing. So, the Jews were instructed to collect two portions on Friday, and a second-order miracle ensured that the extra portion did not rot or get infested with maggots overnight (see Footnote 12).
8 This practice of adding commercial yeast, commonly called “spiking,” ensures a reliably quicker rising time, as sourdough can take a while on its own and, as has already been noted, Fridays can be a little hectic. It’s not cheating. Or maybe it is, and I just don’t care about those rules. We’re playing our own game here.
9 These bubbles of carbon dioxide, caught and held by the stretchy matrix of flour proteins, are the by-product of respiration as the yeasts and bacteria metabolize the starches. Put another way, they are Orlando’s breath. Know this: Dough rises because it is alive.
10 Lit. “peace of the house.”
11 That’s one important reason I don’t use a bread machine to mix our challah dough. (The other is that I don’t own one.)
12 During the 40-year sojourn in the Sinai Desert following the Exodus from Egypt, the Jews survived on daily miracles: water that streamed from a rock; foodstuff (that manna) that appeared on the ground in the night, covered with dew. Each person was instructed to collect enough — and only enough — of this manna for their daily need. Unsurprisingly, some people ignored the order, collecting in excess of their needs and storing it overnight. But this excess manna quickly rotted and filled with maggots.
13 Note to self: Remind Bube of this.
14 If there are no extra guests, or if people do not eat seconds and thirds, I’ll pack the remainders into various Tupperwares while my friends clean up and do the dishes (a good deal). Nothing hits on a Sunday night like Shabbat leftovers, and they make for excellent work-lunches, too — a filling, mid-week reminder of what’s important.
15 There’s a tradition on Purim of v’Nahafokh hu, or “turning things upside down,” a full discussion of which is beyond the scope of this piece.
16 For 25 hours there would be no video games, no television, no coloring with crayons or cutting out construction paper shapes to affix, via glue-stick, onto other shapes. Even activities I ordinarily did not find to be particularly stimulating — turning on and off bathroom lights or answering the kitchen phone, say — acquired a certain allure when forbidden. Surely you know what I mean.
17 A “palace in time” — that’s how Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel describes Shabbat.
18 Traditionally, the challah on the table is covered for the opening ceremony, a blessing over wine. This to commemorate the dew that covered the manna in the desert, and, I kid you not, so that the challah does not get embarrassed at coming after the wine (bread usually is blessed first, but wine gets preference in this Sabbath ritual). I do not yet have a challah cover with me in Ames. Another Bube request, perhaps.
Vigo Jansen created a reputation for himself as the “Resurrectionist King” by giving interviews to local reporters. Unfortunately, his mounting infamy undid any chance he had in making money through his profession: grave robbing. #DCHistory https://t.co/BBMXNLAg7h Vigo Janse…
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 18, 2022
On Friday, 5/20, at 11AM join G&M for a rare look inside the vaults at the LOC’s collection of Ptolemaic atlases! John Hessler, LOC curator, will give remarks on the provenance and collecting of these extremely rare and valuable volumes. Livestream link: https://t.co/WGEFXwDqt4…
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As he sat at the premiere of “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington,” director Frank Capra hoped for a stress-free viewing. While accounts of the actual premiere differed, one thing was clear: politicians hated it. #DCHistory https://t.co/0Ms4BlFJis As he sat at the premiere of “Mr. …
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Hubble Peers Through Giant Elliptical’s Layers via NASA https://t.co/484zjZakfZ https://t.co/6iIPeyDqA0
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 18, 2022
Postcard of the Lewis Hotel Training School at 2301 Pennsylvania Ave NW. The school, said to be the only one of its kind, was founded by Clifford M. Lewis (1873-1941), a D.C. hotel operator who had previously managed the Richmond (see previous post) and Powhatan Hotels. …
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 18, 2022
When the British burned many of the government buildings in DC to the ground, debates on where to move Congress circulated for months. In the meantime, they’d have to work from a tavern down the street. #DCHistory https://t.co/oKedI20UCm When the British burned many of the g…
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Today in History - May 18 https://t.co/zqXa6xXGvF Educator and political leader Mary McLeod Bethune died at the age of eighty on May 18, 1955, in Daytona Beach, Florida. Continue reading. On May 18, 1896, the U.S. Supreme Court case Plessy v. Ferguson ruled separate-but-equ…
— Kenneth Samson (@PangurBanC) May 18, 2022
By Kara Devlin
It was only a few weeks ago that I found out cabin fever — the restlessness, irritability, and loneliness that a person feels when confined to one place for too long — was a genuine, medical term and not just a casual way of joking about isolation. I was on a hypochondriac mission, tasked with discovering exactly why I felt so completely out of my mind after only one week in COVID-positive solitude. When I searched my anxieties and fears, dozens of incredibly validating affirmations popped up: You are not alone; your symptoms are real; you can get better. I had never taken being alone that seriously. It was a common, unavoidable condition of being alive, so why would I?
My discovery that cabin fever was a recognized ailment encouraged me to see isolation in a new way. The severity of the condition was now obvious. As a kid, one day inside had been enough to send me climbing the walls, searching for anything to do. What I didn’t realize as I grew older was that isolation crept into my brain in a much quieter way. Loneliness, shame, unhappiness, and impatience replaced the agitation and boredom I had grown up with. The more I read, the more I realize how universal, yet unique, this feeling is. Why does being alone make us feel this way?
Technology doesn’t help. Most of us can have all our wants and needs met from the comfort of our rooms — food delivered, friends found in anonymous chatrooms, entertainment discovered on endless streaming services. Technology, ironically, has brought freedoms to confinement. We could spend our entire lives within one small space if we chose to, as the economy molds to serve our desires. The lazy day watching Netflix, the guilt-laden Uber Eats order, even the bold Instagram message, have all emerged around a generation spending more time by itself than any before.
Of course, isolation is not just found through a physical landscape. The most harrowing form of loneliness can occur in a crowded room. Edward Hopper famously explored the loneliness of living in the big city through paintings like “Nighthawks.” This ubiquitous depiction of urban isolation, a diner with no entrance and no exit, serves as a memorable illustration of loneliness. When you are inside of this feeling — the metaphorical diner if you will — there is no perceived beginning or end, and no consideration from those around you, as nothing exists beyond this world-swallowing experience.
During the pandemic, isolation transformed from a misfortunate occurrence to something so widespread it was impossible to avoid. Like most people, I spent weeks and weeks inside my house, with no contact with anyone except the members of my household. All aspects of isolation hit at once and were impossible to escape. I realized how easy it would be to continue living like this — perpetually isolated.
I wasn’t the only one who had this idea. The switch to working from home brought the overlapping isolations of technology and the pandemic together. However, this change was not an unavoidable curse cast upon working society: Only three percent want to fully return to the office now that we are able to. Solitude is not just wrought upon us; oftentimes, we choose it. The desire to be left alone by the bothers of the social world often overpowers the negative experience that isolation implies.
I am drawn to the idea that reading can connect the isolated — that one story on loneliness can link together hundreds of confined minds to think, Maybe I’m not alone. The stories on this list do not just seek to analyze and dissect the effects of isolation; they serve as a powerful tool of connection.
***
Ann Babe has written a number of pieces on the solitary experience of different Korean groups, including a powerful article on the isolation of Korean adoptees in America which looks into solitude as an inherent feature of minority identity.
Like many other people, the coronavirus lockdown was my first taste of prolonged isolation. It was a complete change from my regular lifestyle. But what was it like for those who were already isolated — people who had spent years of their lives locked in their rooms, having already chosen a lifestyle of reclusiveness? This describes the hikikomori, a unique subset of people, largely in Asia, who can live decades in almost complete isolation.
South Korean-based journalist Anne Babe thoughtfully explores the experience of these people during the pandemic. She sensitively lays out multiple, personal hikikomori narratives, displaying their anxieties, reservations, and fears, all without judgment. The effects of COVID on these people ran just as deep, despite the misguided thought that they should be used to it. Babe takes us into their worlds, reminding us that there’s not so much difference between us and them.
Reflecting on the pandemic, Kim makes a comparison. “Someone who’s been living in the cold climate for a long period of time, like I have, is able to continue on in the cold weather,” he says. “But if that person is from a hot place, they will find it hard to adapt to the suddenly freezing climate. I would say I’m numb to the coronavirus situation because I am so used to being secluded in my room. But I wouldn’t say I’m completely indifferent to it, because I’ve experienced, briefly, the warmth of being part of society.”
Olivia Laing is also the author of The Lonely City, an enlightening book that pulls together personal narrative and art analysis to develop a beautiful understanding of loneliness.
As a Gen Zer, technology is an integral part of my life. It’s how I keep up with work, understand the daily happenings of the world, and, most importantly, how I talk to every single person I know. This reliance on social media for connection has potentially worrying effects, as Olivia Laing argues in her illustration of concerns for strictly virtual bonds.
Written in 2015, Laing’s fascinating piece points out what we should have realized by then — that the internet is not the perfect tool for connection, that is just an illusion. We may believe it allows us to be seen while simultaneously supporting a level of privacy, but neither can truly be achieved. You will never be viewed for who you really are, just as you will never be concealed from prying eyes. Years later, her predicted anxieties have turned into daily reality. It is normal for every app to gather mountains of data on you, every mistake to result in a permanent “canceling,” and every relationship to spend at least half its time connecting through social media. Laing discovers the true nature of the online world and maintains tension to the last word as we discover more and more truths about our online activity.
This growing entanglement of the corporate and social, this creeping sense of being tracked by invisible eyes, demands an increasing sophistication about what is said and where. The possibility of virulent judgment and rejection induces precisely the kind of hypervigilance and withdrawal that increases loneliness. With this has come the slowly dawning realisation that our digital traces will long outlive us.
I spent my lockdown days in Scotland, under the daily COVID guidance of Boris Johnson, who created laws that only permitted going outside once a day, for exercise. For years, like most other countries around the world, we could not meet anyone outside our “bubble” — the small group of people designated as our close contacts. These restrictions on freedom led to societal concerns about the power of government to forbid even the most basic forms of contact, such as a hug, and led many to come back to the fundamental question: Is socialization a human right?
Gawande delves into this concern in this piece, which focuses on the emergence of solitary confinement as a regular form of punishment within the American incarceration system. He draws us in with stories of monkeys and prisoners of war, creating a compelling argument for the inhumanity of isolation from the get-go. He keeps this level of focus throughout, putting you through the experience of solitary confinement with his illustrative depictions. By the end, you’ll be writing to your local representative, asking them to reconsider their position on this brutal prison punishment.
This presents us with an awkward question: If prolonged isolation is—as research and experience have confirmed for decades—so objectively horrifying, so intrinsically cruel, how did we end up with a prison system that may subject more of our own citizens to it than any other country in history has?
There is an implied difference between solitude and isolation. Solitude is a choice, your own rejection of the world, your own contentment with being alone. With isolation, the rejection flips; you are pushed out of society, no matter how much you want to climb back in. This peculiarity is just one that Sarah Fay explores in this piece. Subtle contradictions are her strong suit, as she walks the line between being alone and being lonely, the various subtleties between autophobia and eremophobia, and the distinction between interaction and connection. Ultimately, Fay’s personality is the driving force of this article, compelling us to read on to uncover her personal revelations on solitude.
The key to connection was not to be needy of connection with others. We have to give freely of ourselves, act as social philanthropists who donate anonymously expecting no plaques or appreciation in return. (Turkle and others have pointed to this as the reason why social media doesn’t make us feel connected. Each tweet, post, or friend request is made with the expectation of a response: a retweet, a repost, a like, an accepted request.)
Isolation can often be interlinked with identity. People who are perpetually alone may come to the conclusion that this feeling is an inherent feature of who they are. This is particularly true with minorities, as each member finds themselves intrinsically different from the people surrounding them. Michael Hobbes reflects on this experience within the gay community, almost a year after the Supreme Court legalized same-sex marriage in all 50 states. Hobbes meets each man he interviews with a deep understanding — he is a gay man himself — as he intertwines his personal narrative with that of his community. He allows their revelations to propel the article, using his own logic to back each reflection.
I’m always drawn to pieces that effectively communicate an experience I will never personally understand. Hobbes’ depiction is painful; it is raw; but, importantly, it is thoughtful. Each sentence takes care not just for its audience, but for the subjects it depicts. The level of consideration put into each word creates a simultaneously welcoming and challenging reading experience.
You grow up with this loneliness, accumulating all this baggage, and then you arrive in the Castro or Chelsea or Boystown thinking you’ll finally be accepted for who you are. And then you realize that everyone else here has baggage, too. All of a sudden it’s not your gayness that gets you rejected. It’s your weight, or your income, or your race. “The bullied kids of our youth,” Paul says, “grew up and became bullies themselves.”
The Loneliness Project also takes on the normalcy of loneliness with its online archive detailing anecdotes of isolation from hundreds of submitters.
Is loneliness shameful? Does it function as a reflection of who we are as people? These are the integral questions considered by Claire Bushey as she investigates the hows and whys of her own personal loneliness, which started long before the restraints of COVID. To Bushy, being alone is neither a curse nor a blessing: It is simply a way of being. She presents her findings as a blunt response to the ideas that surrounded isolation at the start of the pandemic — that this was a new, torturous experience for all. What draws me to this piece is its honesty: Bushey doesn’t hide behind convention and expectation; she lays out everything she feels and experiences as if it were essential.
Lonely as a cloud? I am as lonely as an iceberg, an egg, a half carafe of wine. I am lonely as the body is hungry three times a day, hollowed again and again by an ache that does not ease except with the sustenance of connection. The feeling differs from the peace of solitude, which many enjoy, including me at times. Instead, it is a gnawing sadness. Even before the pandemic, a combination of circumstance and choice left me with fewer close ties than I wanted. Every day I forage for connection, and some days I go hungry.
***
Kara Devlin is a writer and student based in Glasgow, Scotland. Her writing has appeared in Her Campus, Medium, and others.
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Kartik Sheth: Advancing Science and Equity via NASA https://t.co/NrBPaSu4Eb https://t.co/7UlZrad5X0
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Postcard view of the Richmond Hotel, built in 1883 at the northeast corner of 17th and H St NW, near Lafayette Park. The ornate, castle-like style of the Richmond was typical of the city's first generation of residential hotels. It was torn down in 1922. https://t.co/u3wpmbHYqH…
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#OTD in 1957, the Bolling v. Sharpe verdict delivered by the Supreme Court changed public education in DC forever. The journey to the win and how best to attack segregation was one like no other, with James Nabrit Jr. leading the charge. #DCHistory https://t.co/W8tZ51Lcve #O…
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Today in History - May 17 https://t.co/3JZUM4so6n Popular rider Oliver Lewis rode H. P. McGrath’s thoroughbred Aristides to victory in the first Kentucky Derby on May 17, 1875, at the Louisville Jockey Club. Continue reading. May 17 is Norwegian Constitution Day, a commemor…
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As the Declaration of Independence approaches its 250th birthday in 2026, it’s actually impressive that it’s survived this long! Its history is filled with twists, turns, and a mystery handprint. #DCHistory https://t.co/P0wCv2EpIa As the Declaration of Independence approache…
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Introducing Quesst: Speed Never Sounded So Quiet via NASA https://t.co/W8dPzH7RFg https://t.co/Qz7Ev6JnfU
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Introducing Quesst: Speed Never Sounded So Quiet via NASA https://t.co/OUcEuTUouV https://t.co/hilDNaFgjB
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For three generations, the Friendly Cab Company has provided transportations for Arlington residents. Its origins as a service for African American residents to get to the hospital expanded into a trusted business over the years. #VAHistory https://t.co/l5YVvYH04m For three …
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Happy Monday! To start out the week, take a looks at this map of the United States made in 1907. It shows the routes of principal explorers, from 1501 to 1844! Zoom in to see all the details. Take a look here: https://t.co/r8LcQBxjj6 https://t.co/Kgh9Rs0FKY Happy Monday! To s…
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Happy Birthday to William Seward - his role in securing the Alaska Treaty in 1867 was, to him, his greatest accomplishment, but felt that it would take a while for the rest of the country to feel the same. #DCHistory https://t.co/3YXJ1y9riK Happy Birthday to William Seward -…
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Today in History - May 16 https://t.co/CFkMHgcd1u On May 16, 1868, the U.S. Senate voted 35 to 19, one vote short of the two-thirds majority needed to convict President Andrew Johnson of "high crimes and misdemeanors," as he was charged under the eleventh article of impeachm…
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Quote of the Day: "Words are often seen hunting for an idea, but ideas are never seen hunting for words." - Josh Billings
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In 1933, as the nation lingered in the depths of the Great Depression, Eleanor Roosevelt came to meet the thousands of World War I veterans camped in Washington to demand immediate payment of their military pensions. #DCHistory #VAHistory https://t.co/wGnLFTDs3v In 1933, as …
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Can you imagine the world’s most powerful clandestine intelligence agency spread out across a series of ramshackle offices in and around Washington, DC? Well, that’s what constituted the Central Intelligence Agency in 1953. #DCHistory #VAHistory https://t.co/31d7Uz112I Can y…
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Early 1900s postcard of Caldwell Hall, the first major building at Catholic University in Brookland, DC. Completed in 1889, it was designed by Ephraim Francis Baldwin (1837-1916). In the distance is Holy Cross College, completed in 1899 and designed by Lemuel Norris (1848-19…
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https://t.co/jFda3jKD0o https://t.co/jFda3jKD0o — Streets of Washington (@StreetsOfDC) May 15, 2022
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Quote of the Day: "It is not the mountain we conquer but ourselves." - Edmund Hillary
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