Syrian Bread, The King of Breads – Recipe

 BY CHRISTINE · PUBLISHED DECEMBER 23, 2016 · UPDATED DECEMBER 23, 2016

When I awoke and entered the kitchen as a child to find four sheets, a plastic backed table cloth, and the powder blue bedspread that had the little popcorn-ball looking puffs on it all sitting patiently on the kitchen table, I knew what the day would hold – fresh baked Syrian Bread!!!!!

Syrian Bread – the staple of my upbringing – makes my mouth water just thinking about it. And no one’s Syrian Bread holds a candle to my Mom’s recipe! In fact, her Syrian Bread was SO good, she often substituted it for monetary payments, especially when it came to getting her driveway plowed in the winter (you know who you are Bob H. and John R.)!  

Probably my longest-standing baking memory of my Mom, other than evening dinners, includes her making this bread. Although a fairly simple recipe with few ingredients, it is an all day process (which you will see shortly). When I was a little girl, my Mom would portion out a small ball of dough for me to make my very own loaf. Rather than care for it gingerly as she did the other loaves, I had a tendency to treat it like play-doh, over-rolling and patting it out to the n-th degree, so when it baked it was all crust and no middle. I didn’t care – I was just tickled to have my very own loaf!

With both my daughters home, my Orthodox sister Sue C. joined us on Wednesday this week to spend the day baking – and thank goodness she did or we would have had an epic fail (Sue is a whiz kid in the kitchen!)! I had been hopeful my bread making skills improved from rolling my poor loaves to death as a kid, but if Sue wasn’t there, it may have been a repeat of my childhood!   We have decreed this will be a yearly holiday tradition from this point forward!

Syrian Bread Crew 2016 (front: Sue [Orthodox Sister], James [child#4],
back: Me, Emily [child#1], Logan [child#2])

Once Sue arrived and I got my groggy girls up from their slumber, we headed to the kitchen for coffee and frittata and to get our baking day started.

The first thing you need to do is dissolve the yeast, salt, and sugar in water. Sue became immediately indispensable here (not a shock – Sue is always immediately indispensable), as I was so excited I immediately wanted to start stirring my Mom’s giant bread bowl with a wooden spoon as I had always seen her do when I was younger. Sue, on the other hand, had the wisdom to force me to wait until the yeast “activated” (I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about…)

Yeast in one bowl, salt and sugar in other waiting to add to the water… (notice Finn our resident guard dog overseeing our cooking in the background)

All three added to the water – this is where Sue made me wait… watch for it…

… and POOF! The yeast suddenly exploded! So that is what “activate” meant!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Who could turn away such a cute face?! He even put on his 4-H apron!

 

 

James (child #4) stayed to help, so he assisted with adding the 3 cups flour, and beating it in with a wooden spoon. Now, I should probably add that we tripled the recipe, so we all would be taking our turns at stirring and kneading…

…the first set of 3 cups flour …

… now Logan’s (child #2) turn (we give her a little leeway since she is expecting a baby girl in late February) …

… and then Sue is up …

 

 

  

My Mom’s directions say “Add one more cup … blend in … one more cup … blend in … add last cup of flour a little at a time while kneading until smooth.”

The last three cups will be kneaded in …(remember we tripled the recipe)

Our little bread warrior…

Zumi, part of the floor clean up crew, is helping get the spilled flour mixture up…

 

 

 

 Now it’s time to tuck the dough in for the first of three (yes – you read that right – THREE) risings. Mom’s directions say “Cover with a sheet and bedspread,” but I remember her saying it was really important to keep it warm, so we used a sheet, a towel, an insulated blanket, and a quilt. We also sprayed a piece of wax paper with olive oil spray and placed that over the top of the bowl to keep the dough from sticking to the cloths. Let the dough rise until double in size, about 1 ½ hours.

First the sheet, covered by the towel…

… covered by a quilt. Nighty-night dough – see you in about an hour and a half…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now — Mom’s recipe didn’t have an INTERMISSION, but our baking session did! 

Because baking bread wasn’t enough, we also had :DANCING

(notice Finn felt the need to join Sue and James …

 

 

 

 

 

It looks like our kitchen guard got a little too close to some flour (look between his ears)

 

 

 Then, since we were still waiting on the first rise, there was BAKLAVA (requested by child#2, the pregnant one) — NOTE – Sue made this from memory (I told you she was a whiz in the kitchen):

The pregnant one requested this – notice her TUMS also behind this picture (an accident for the photo, but also goes with being pregnant)

 By the time the baklava was done, it was time to get back to the regularly scheduled bread session, although the girls started planning several other cookies to make during the next rising intermission …

Once the dough has risen to double its size, it’s time to prep it for the second rise.

My Mom used a plastic-backed table cloth covered by a sheet, but we used my regular table mat covered by a table cloth covered by a sheet. Whatever you use – make sure a clean sheet is the layer you flour well for the next rising. Cut dough to the size of a softball. Flatten balls, like a flat tire. Place on floured sheet about 6 inches apart.

Notice the prepped table in the background

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We ended up with 33 loaves in our triple batch

 

 Then cover with a sheet, flannel backed tablecloth of some sort, and a doubled bedspread.

With the second rising of 30-45 minutes, INTERMISSION #2 began, this time with:

Hot Cocoa Cookies, although they made the cookie dough from scratch …

Emily found the recipe on pinterest

AND Chocolate covered pretzels…. the girls even got our resident Grinch Michael (child#3) to come up at the sounds and smells of chocolate!

The resident Grinch helping with the pretzels…

 

 

 

 

 NOW — back to our bread …

Check the dough in about 30-45 minutes or until dough is easy (not tough) to flatten. Mom’s recipe says to “first flatten with hands then once or twice over with a rolling pin.”

Cover again and let rise again about 30-45 minutes (until it is about one inch thick).

By this point, Logan (child #2) was out for the count – again, we cut her some slack since she’s pregnant. Besides, we had fun snapping pictures of her sleeping on the couch….

Her guard-poodle, Pilo, passed out with her…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AT LAST – after three risings – the bread is ready to cook! Heat the oven to 500 degrees. Put an oven rack on the counter for the bread as it comes out of the oven. Put the other rack to the lowest position inthe oven.

Put it in the oven for about two minutes. Then slip bread off cookie sheet right onto oven rack. Bake about three minutes or until light brown on the bottom. Flip bread loaves over and bake for about 2 more minutes until the bottom is brown.To bake – put one or two loaves on a flat no edge cookie sheet.

Remove from oven immediately and brush with soft butter all over. Wipe with a paper towel to remove excess.

 Let cool. Store in a plastic bag.     

Or – if you are like Sue — just break a mini loaf in half and eat if fresh out of the oven!  

 

You can’t see it in the picture, but as Sue broke this in half it was actually steaming!!!

Is there anything like freshly baked bread?!?!

 

 Print

Syrian Bread

Mom Leona's infamous (and very detailed) recipe!

 Author Leona Louise (Lugar) Curry Mock

Ingredients

• 2 ½ cups warm water
• 1 package yeast
• 2 teaspoons salt
• ½ teaspoon sugar
• 6 cups flour – total including kneading
• 1 stick softened butter

Instructions

1. Dissolve yeast, salt, and sugar in water.
2. Add 3 cups flour. Beat it in with a wooden spoon.
3. Add one more cup … blend in … one more cup … blend in … add last cup of flour a little at a time while kneading until smooth.
4. Cover with a sheet and bedspread. Let rise until double in size, about 1 ½ hours.
5. I cover my kitchen table with a terrycloth table cloth then a sheet … flour well.
6. Cut dough to the size of a softball. Flatten balls, like a flat tire. Place on floured sheet about 6 inches apart.
7. Then cover with a sheet, flannel backed tablecloth of some sort, and a doubled bedspread.
8. Let rise about 30-45 minutes or until dough is easy (not tougto flatten. I first flatten mine with hands then once or twice over with a rolling pin.
9. Cover again and let rise again about 30-45 minutes (about one inch).
10. Heat oven to 500 degrees.
11. Put an oven rack on the counter for bread as it comes out of the oven. Put the other rack to the lowest position in oven.
12. To bake – put one or two loaves on flat (no edgecookie sheet. Put in the oven for about two minutes. Then slip bread off cookie sheet right onto oven rack. Bake about three minutes or until light brown on the bottom. Flip bread loaves over and bake for about 2 more minutes until the bottom is brown.
13. Remove from oven immediately and brush with soft butter all over. Wipe with a paper towel to remove excess.
14. Let cool. Store in a plastic bag.

“Here is bread, which strengthens man’s heart, and therefore is called the staff of Life.” ~ Matthew Henry

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Bearing THE Mark – Grandma’s Tattoo

 BY CHRISTINE · PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER 6, 2018 · UPDATED SEPTEMBER 7, 2018

A drawing of my Tita, and how I always see her.

Religion and education run through my veins like a river  – whether you look at my adopted side or my birth side –  the lines run deep back through both lineages. They are a part of who I am, and where I’m from. Whenever we are in doubt of who we are, reflecting on from whence we come is a great starting point.

In our family,  the name for Grandmother has always been Tita – from my Dad’s Syrian/Lebanese roots. I wear the title of Tita with great honor – as did my mother and my Dad’s mother before her. All my memories of MY Tita however are someone else’s as she passed away when I was only nine months old – but boy are my memories wonderful! I was raised being told how she approved of my name even though it isn’t in the Bible but contained the word Christ so it passed her approval; how I bit her so hard once when she was trying to rock me to sleep she had tears coming out of her eyes but refused to put me down; yet my absolute favorite is one that I’ve only recently acquired, and fascinates me to no end.

A picture of my grandmother, or Tita as we would call her in her native tongue, circa 1968

Stories and family lore run deep around both the Curry and Lugar branches of my somewhat complicated and gnarled family tree. The tales of my Tita hold some of the greatest mystique for me – I think because everyone has always told me these tales of how deeply she adored the infant that was me. As a young immigrant to the United States, the wife of an Orthodox priest, and the mother of eighteen children (yeah – you read that right it’s not a typo – however only seventeen survived past infancy), the stories around my Tita, Mary (George) Saba Curry, were always about the life she lived in the US, not of the one she left in Syria/Lebanon. But, this NEW lore makes the rest pale in comparison, and astounds me even more than what it must have been like raising seventeen children at the turn of the century …

St. Mary’s Antiochian Orthodox Church (Johnstown, PA) – 1976

My Grandfather, Fr. Michael & Tita Mary

You see – my Tita was born December 15, 1880 in a small village in Syria , which is now a part of Lebanon. She and my Grandfather immigrated to the United States  in the 1890’s eventually settling in Johnstown, PA and established St. Mary’s Orthodox Church with twelve other families. I still have my Tita’s cross – one of my most cherished possessions – which I received on my sixteenth birthday (as a little girl I used to beg my Mom to pull this treasure out of her jewelry box to gaze at this marvel that would someday be mine – laying on the skin over my heart, just as it had my Tita’s).

A few years ago, I had to travel to Houston so I was able to catch up with my cousin Cissy, who had always been the big sister I longed for but never had. I lived with her young family of three in Texas the summer of my fourteenth year after my father died. She was everything I had hoped I would one day become, and visiting her after so much time had passed was a much anticipated reunion.

Luxuriating in her living room as if 34 years had not passed by us, Cis shared with me her childhood memories of my parents who have both now passed, showed me some of our earliest family artifacts, (including the Bishop’s bench that she had from her mother, my Aunt Lil – this was the seat the bishop would sit in during his visits to the church, located in a place of honor while parishioners would kiss his hand/ring in a show of respect and reverence as they came forward — it did not look very comfortable at all by today’s standards), and a tale of my Tita’ early years in Syria/Labanon. Being slightly my senior, Cissy knew SO many family tales that were new to me, and we sat into the wee hours of that evening with me riveted to her every word.

 

I had always heard the “coming to America” tale through Ellis Island, and how my maiden name became Curry instead of Khouri (Lebanese for priest), and I even had an inkling that they fled their home country for religious freedom (Christians were not welcome with the Ottoman Empire). Yet – I truly had no idea or concept of what it would have been like to be a Syrian/Lebanese Christian in the late 1800’s in the Mount Lebanon region of her homeland. Any imaginings of my Tita in the tales being told always had her part played by an elderly, head-scarf-wearing woman – just like the pictures of her I grew up seeing. Thinking of her as a young girl in a primitive, far-away  Ottoman-run Syria was a new and novel experience for me.

As the hours wore on and the stories continued, Cis said, ‘Well, you know Tita had a tattoo …” My mind came to a screeching halt, still trying to get my head around my 87 year-old Tita, bearer of 18 children, with a rose tattoo on her hip or lower back –

Coptic Christian tattoos
retreived from http://byztex.blogspot.com/2011/09/met-isaiah-of-denver-on-tattoos.html

— the visual just wasn’t working for me.

Apparently – while a young girl in Syria – Christians would literally meet in mountain caves and the countryside to worship together. My Tita bore a  small cross tattoo on her hand as a secret sign used by fellow Christians to identify one another. The stories vary about whether the tattoo was on her inner wrist, which would have remained covered under her garments, or on the web of skin between her thumb and her fingers, on the palm side – but she DEFINITELY had the cross tattooed somewhere on her hand. My first thought was “OW!!!! that HAD to be painful!” followed by “WOW….[silence]…”, just WOW!

In a world where showing your faith is ridiculed at times by the general populace, the thought of permanently marking yourself with a tattoo – not for vanity reasons but as a true symbol of faith and your commitment to God – is staggering to my mind. What strength and conviction my Tita had – to physically bear a sign on her body, that if found could cause her death! This cross was a constant and permanent reminder of the commitment that she’d  made – a silent, subtle reminder for the rest of her existence of where her heart resided – in her devotion. Here we are in a society where we question publicly displaying our convictions, yet so many faithful before us risked their lives to make sure we were able to worship safely – a gift we so

Littlest Man being baptized at SS. Peter and Paul Orthodox Church, Windber, PA

easily  take for granted!

My images of my Tita still envision her as the elderly, head-scarf-wearing woman, BUT now I feel a connection and gratefulness to her for her willingness to be an example of a God-fearing woman- I am even more in awe of her life and her desire to serve God.

Faith  –

it runs deep through my veins.

It’s at the core of my being —

passed down from generation to generation

through blood

and through adoption.

Prayer Candles

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