There’s no such thing as too much Mandel bread, especially if it was made by a Jewish grandma.
Pesach isn’t Pesach without my grandma’s chocolate chip Mandel bread. I unfortunately have an extreme aversion to matzah. When I was a kid, there were times I would throw up just picturing the cardboard cracker. It didn’t matter how much shmear covered it; I simply couldn’t stomach it. This significantly narrowed down my Pesach diet. But something I could always count on to taste not only tolerable but also incredibly delicious was my grandma’s kosher-for-Pesach Mandel bread.
This pastry is a Cohen family favorite, and even though I’m sure we’d all agree that we crave it year-round, we only ever eat it during Pesach. Just as Shabbat wouldn’t feel as special if we had it whenever we wanted, Mandel bread, too, would lose its charm. As a kid, the thought of giving up chametz for a week felt like a small sacrifice compared to the comforting taste of my grandma’s Mandel bread. When I picture my early memories of the holiday, I remember time spent with my family, but that time was almost always surrounded by this pastry. A Pesach day trip to the zoo? That would call for at least two large containers of Mandel bread for my family of 6. I would eat as many as it took to fill me up when my stomach couldn’t take another cream cheese on a matzah sandwich.
Unfortunately, it’s been many years since I’ve gotten to taste my grandma’s Mandel bread. She hadn’t been in the condition to make it for quite some time, and none of my family’s attempts to replicate it have tasted the same. We have the recipe, we follow it word for word, but the touch of a Jewish grandma can’t be replicated.
While I have made the pastry with my grandma in the past, unfortunately for me and everyone around me, I am an extremely bad baker. Last Pesach, I attempted to make it, and let’s just say, nobody would dare to classify whatever I cooked up as Mandel bread.
As I sat there, staring at my cake-textured creation, every part of me wished that I didn’t have to try to make it myself. That my grandma would come knocking on our door with a fresh batch like she used to. I imagined her sending me off with my very own box as I left to spend the rest of the holiday at college, as she had done for my sisters. The Mandel bread would sit in a Tupperware container with a piece of tape labeled “for livi” on it. I would open the container the moment I arrived back at school, or earlier if I were being truly realistic. The freshly baked smell would fill the air around me, and I would feel ready to brace the rest of Pesach away from home.
She sadly passed away in the fall, and the first thing most brought up in my family’s speeches at her funeral was her incredible humor and her remarkable strength, but second to that was the way her famous Mandel bread made us feel. It wasn’t just the idea of having something tasty to eat, but the knowledge that you were loved enough for someone to make a batch with you in mind. Each piece was like a portable hug from someone that we all loved so dearly.
My grandma’s care for her family didn’t stop, though, when she left this earth. Shortly after her passing, my sister became pregnant, and I wholeheartedly believe that she had something to do with it. God willing, my mom will become a grandma in August, and next Pesach, the Cohen family might just have some authentic Jewish grandma Mandel bread once again.
Our recipe has been passed down a few generations now, and isn’t something I would ever think to share publicly, but my hope for you this Pesach is that you’ll find your own version. Something that brings you unequivocal comfort, no matter where you find yourself. Whether that actually be a slice of homemade Mandel bread, or something a bit more metaphorical. Embrace the unconditional love that it brings you and the knowledge that you are far from alone. Pesach is a time to be with those you cherish most. Whatever your Mandel bread may be, let it bring you together with the people you love, physically or elsewhere.
