When I was about five years old, I lived two blocks away from my grandmother, my “Bawbee,” Clara Bard. We lived on 16th and Lloyd, and my Bawbee lived with her sister and brother-in-law, Tante Yetty and Uncle Harry, on 17th Street.
My mother and I would frequently walk the two blocks to visit Bawbee. It was always fun to pass the familiar sights on our walk. The pharmacy on the corner had a soda fountain with twirling high stools, where you could sit and lick your ice cream cone with jimmies on top.
Sometimes we would stop at the library across the street from the pharmacy; this was one of my favorite places, and all of the librarians knew me. We would pass Galst’s Grocery Store.
On the corner of 17th and North Avenue was Cohen’s Delicatessen, now called Jake’s Deli. When we would stop in there, Mr. Cohen would often cut me a piece of fresh salami. The smell of garlic would make my mouth water, and I would savor the flavor all the way to Bawbee’s house.
One of my favorite recollections of being at Bawbee’s house was just before Purim. I loved watching Bawbee and Tante Yetty make hamantaschen.
These were no ordinary hamantaschen. Anyone could have hamantaschen filled with cherries, prunes or poppy seeds, but these were the Romanian variety, filled with honey and nuts.
The two sisters made sure that every grandchild, niece and nephew, no matter where they lived in the United States, received a dozen hamantaschen before Purim. So for a few days every year, I was their witness, admirer and taster.
As we opened the back door, the smell of honey cooking on the stove would waft torward the door, and make my mouth water. I would sit at the table to watch, with my mom next to me.
The amazing thing is that they didn’t use a bowl. Bawbee and Tante Yetty would take a pile of flour, make a well, and place all the ingredients in the well.
There were no measuring cups — it was handful of this and a pinch of that. They seemed to know just the right ratio of wet ingredients to dry ingredients. They used their hands to knead the dough, which like magic, formed into a ball.
Bawbee had a long rolling pin that her cabinet-maker husband, Zadye Nathan, had made for her. She would use the pin to roll out the dough across a floured wooden board. To make the circles for the hamantaschen, they would take a drinking glass dipped into flour to act as a cookie cutter.
Meanwhile, the honey had been cooking with chopped walnuts on the stove. This mixture had to cool before each teaspoonful was dropped onto the dough circles.
Their experienced hands pinched the hamantaschen closed to bake. They would be lined up like soldiers on the baking sheets. The last step before baking was brushing these delicate pastries with egg to give them a shine.
It was with mouth-watering anticipation that we waited until the first batch would come out of the oven. It seemed like an eternity — not 20 minutes — until those golden-brown dainties would emerge from the hot oven.
I remember asking, “Can I eat it now?” and always hearing the same answer: “No, you have to wait until it cools.”
Then Bawbee would pour me a glass of milk, and place one of the prized triangles in front of me. I would take little bites so that the chewy hamantaschen would last longer. I loved having the honey and nuts stick to my teeth.
When I had children of my own, I was anxious to have the hamantaschen recipe so that I could carry on the tradition of baking these crunchy sweets at Purim time.
But, like with all Bawbee’s baking, the recipes were in her head. She knew how the dough should feel, how it should taste and how it should smell — the sign of an expert baker.
I decided to tape-record Bawbee telling me how to bake the hamantaschen. This was quite an experience for both of us. She would say, “You take some flour:” and I would say, “How much?” Her response would be, “A few handfuls.
I pressed her. “How much is a handful?” I finally got her to admit that about four cups would do, and a pinch of salt was about one teaspoon. Through this question-and-answer dialogue, I finally had a recipe recorded for posterity.
Now that my Bawbee is no longer here, I listen to her tape and write the recipe on a 3×5 index card. After my last batch of hamantaschen comes out of the oven and I sit admiring my work, I think back fondly of the times that I watched Bawbee proudly baking in her kitchen.
I then proceed to tear up my recipe card so that I can listen to her voice again next year, and all the years to come, telling me just what to do.
Beverly Bard Ugent of Fox Point is a retired school psychologist. She wrote this as part of a Jewish memoir writing class of the Melton Institute of Hebrew University, and offered through the Harry & Rose Samson Family Jewish Community Center.
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