The babka comes with a whole host of memories. Closing my eyes, I can see my maternal grandmother in her bright, second floor kitchen. White curtains, with beautifully crocheted red and white edging, her own handiwork, frame the windows.
My grandmother, a well proportioned stocky woman, of strong Polish heritage, would be up to her elbows in flour, kneading the babka dough. It never ceased to amaze me how she could endlessly keep turning, pushing, and pounding that dough.
Her hard work always resulted in high, luscious loaves of bread. Thick pieces spread with butter tasted indescribably delicious.
Fast forward several decades and we come to yesterday. In my own kitchen, the kneading of the babka took place. Tender thoughts of my grandmother and my mother came to mind. They are both gone from this earth now.
As I kneaded the currants into the warm, soft dough, tears filled my eyes and trickled down my cheeks. It was impossible to wipe them away since my hands were filled with flour and dough.
So many Easter memories came flooding into my mind; so much sadness over loss filled my heart, mixed with the happiness of thinking about Easter Sunday.
Even though our loved ones are no longer here, with us, on earth, they live in our hearts, minds, and memories, as well as in, well, babka!
Come Sunday, guests will have the opportunity to eat the delicious babka with Easter dinner.