This coming Sunday I'm hoping to make a babka.

Before you ask (from http://www.answers.com)…

bab·ka (bäb'kÉ™) pronunciation
n.A coffee cake flavored with orange rind, rum, almonds, and raisins.

[Polish, diminutive of baba, old woman.]

My Polish grandmother — full of warmth, kindess, affection, storytales and herbal tea remedies to all modern ailments — used to find a way to always be pulling one of these out of her oven as my brothers and I squeezed through the door of the quaint gray house they owned in South Plainfield. Our ultimate destination was the front porch where they kept two pianos, an organ and a box of old toys that had once been my mother's. However, far be it from us to pass up an almost-too-warm-to-eat slice of babka covered in a thin layer of jam and served with a tall cup of whatever herbal tea she deemed fit.

I couldn't tell you what we were drinking. Nobody could. She kept all the dried leaves in cloudy, unmarked jars on her counter. She always knew how to make the tea just right — steeped with an eye on the time and sweetened gently with honey — so that we, being typical children, didn't try to empty her sugar bowl in attempts to make it resemble Kool-Aid. Her only answers to inqueries about the teas were, "Don't worry. Is good. You drink now." She always placed a creased but soft hand on your shoulder when she sensed resistance to her teas. Aided by the aroma wafting from the steaming mug she had just set before you, I defy both my brothers to tell me they could have ever turned her down.

My father often affectionately referred to her, his mother-in-law, as the witch doctor. I never saw him turn down the magic potions or mysterious mixtures she'd make special trips to our house to brew. She'd let herself into the house and not make her presence known immediately. It wasn't until she was rounding the corner from the kitchen in her slow but determined shuffle-step with a steaming cup of "Is good," magic that my father would sit up from where he had been resting and smile.

After placing the cup in his somewhat reluctant hands she'd take up residence in a recliner next to the sofa, put up her feet and quiety use her presence to will the steaming liquid from the cup and into his mouth. That tea wasn't going to do a damn bit of "Is good," if it didn't find its way down my father's throat. Anna Zniecki loved with a heart of gold and pushed her homegrown meds with an iron fist.

It was always quietly amusing to watch this take place because it was well known that my mother's parents had initially been resistant to her intention to marry a black man. The wedding picture that sat in the living room featured my father's side of the family, but not my mother's. In fact, pictures from their wedding are scarce in our photo albums. Pictures that featured my father and his in-laws didn't surface until captions signalled things like — "Stacy's first Christmas," "Stacy's second birthday," or "Stacy at the park." I'm strangely honored — though of course take no personal responsibility — to have been the first of three babies that brought my mother and her new husband back into the hearts of my grandparents.

Instead of wedding pictures, there's an entire two albums devoted to the cross-country trip that my parents took to Colorado as their impromptu honeymoon. Just a white woman with a grin that seemed to glow, a black man with an adventurous twinkle in his eye — both weary from long roads — traveling in a rust colored Ford van. Looking at those pictures always made me and my brothers marvel that they ever found it in their hearts to return to New Jersey. After all, what did the east coast have that couldn't be found in the beautiful nothingness that the skies in Colorado seemed to be boldly spun of?

Family.

And thank goodness they found their way back, otherwise I may have grown up a stranger to the wonders a Polish woman can do with her worn hands, a morning's worth of careful baking and the kind of timing that — to me — always felt like a sign of unconditional love.

Just in case you too now crave a warm loaf of babka with apricot jam…

Polish Babka Bread

Ingredients

  • One cup milk
  • 1/4 cup water
  • 1/2 cup butter
  • 3 cups flour
  • 1/2 cup sugar
  • 1 teaspoon salt
  • 1 package dry yeast
  • 2 eggs
  • 1 cup of golden raisins

Cooking Instructions

Measure
milk, water, and butter into a saucepan and heat just briefly. In a
large bowl stir together 3 cups flour, sugar, salt, and dry yeast. With
a wooden spoon, blend in milk mixture beating well. Beat eggs and add
to mixture. Add raisins. Gradually beat in enough additional flour to
create a dough that can be handled. Bowl will tend to clean itself as
you stir when a sufficient amount of flour has been added.Turn dough out on floured surface. Knead until smooth and and elastic.
Place in greased bowl. Turn once. Cover. Let rise until doubled. Then
punch down and knead briefly. Transfer to greased pan. Let rise to
double size. Bake 40 minutes or so until light tan in color; take a
beaten egg and brush egg over bread. Bake a few minutes more until
golden.