Rugelach
Essay 10, Finite
by gayla mills
This past Chanukah, I decided to make some rugelach for Gene’s family. I was in no mood to shop for presents. Who needs more stuff anyway? But baking I can handle. My grandma, who was the first to show me how to use a rolling pin and butter, wasn’t the rugelach type. Instead we made sugar cookies and ate Hungarian pastries with poppy seeds baked by my Aunt Olga. This pastry was a special thing, shipped from Canada, frozen on arrival, then thawed for special moments and cut thin. When I visited Hungary to find my family’s old lives and people, I failed in everything but tracking down some delicious poppy seed pastries. It almost made up for everything else.
But rugelach—I didn’t know much about these flaky pastries except that I enjoyed the ones sold at the local natural foods store. When I found a recipe on the web, my health principles ran smack up against my cravings. Cream cheese, butter, and sour cream were the primary ingredients. This was going to be a major dietary setback, I could see that.
I decided to make them anyway, and offer them in some decorative tins. Although they looked awfully cute, I had no idea what a profound effect these tidbits would have on the family. As she bit into the first morsel, Gene’s sister Nancy seemed to have a physical reaction best described as orgasmic. And after Gene sampled one, I had to hold him back from consuming the lot—“they are a present, remember?” I whispered.
I was most touched, though, when his mom Bertha spoke of her upcoming eighty-ninth birthday a few weeks later. “I want to have a birthday breakfast with the family,” she said. Topping the must-have list was my rugelach. Of course I agreed to make them again.
The day before she died, hmmm, just four days ago, we had tried to ply her with her favorite chocolate cake from Tastebuds. She had a notorious sweet tooth. “I’m just too tired,” she said.“You eat it.”
As we planned the funeral, Nancy suggested that the memorial should be followed by the birthday breakfast that her mom would have to miss. So tonight I’ll go home and make the rugelach. I’ll roll out the cream cheese dough in round circles on the floured counter. I’ll take the pizza cutter and make twelve little slices. I’ll spread the cinnamon and sugar, the nuts and the chocolate chips, and roll them up into lots of dainty morsels to bake on a sheet.
Then we’ll all have some rugelach and think about the past.
Next
But rugelach—I didn’t know much about these flaky pastries except that I enjoyed the ones sold at the local natural foods store. When I found a recipe on the web, my health principles ran smack up against my cravings. Cream cheese, butter, and sour cream were the primary ingredients. This was going to be a major dietary setback, I could see that.
I decided to make them anyway, and offer them in some decorative tins. Although they looked awfully cute, I had no idea what a profound effect these tidbits would have on the family. As she bit into the first morsel, Gene’s sister Nancy seemed to have a physical reaction best described as orgasmic. And after Gene sampled one, I had to hold him back from consuming the lot—“they are a present, remember?” I whispered.
I was most touched, though, when his mom Bertha spoke of her upcoming eighty-ninth birthday a few weeks later. “I want to have a birthday breakfast with the family,” she said. Topping the must-have list was my rugelach. Of course I agreed to make them again.
The day before she died, hmmm, just four days ago, we had tried to ply her with her favorite chocolate cake from Tastebuds. She had a notorious sweet tooth. “I’m just too tired,” she said.“You eat it.”
As we planned the funeral, Nancy suggested that the memorial should be followed by the birthday breakfast that her mom would have to miss. So tonight I’ll go home and make the rugelach. I’ll roll out the cream cheese dough in round circles on the floured counter. I’ll take the pizza cutter and make twelve little slices. I’ll spread the cinnamon and sugar, the nuts and the chocolate chips, and roll them up into lots of dainty morsels to bake on a sheet.
Then we’ll all have some rugelach and think about the past.
Next