It was the early evening of Maundy Thursday. I had come home from the office, picked up my kids from their caregivers and stopped at the grocery store for the ingredients to bake a batch of paska. I parked the car, and we got out to sort the grocery bags in the trunk. Each child received a bag to carry to our apartment on the fourth floor.
I rushed to make the yeast dough. While it rose, I put away the groceries and made simple sandwiches for the girls to eat. I took out the biggest pot I had to boil 3 dozen of eggs for coloring later on. 30 minutes later I looked at my dough, it had barely risen. I decided to give it a few more minutes. The eggs started to boil, I put the timer on for hard boiled eggs.
The water boiled in the kettle for egg coloring. The kids were chatting at the dining table, I was rushing back and forth, answering their questions, listening to their chatter. Then I remembered my paska dough. Still not much progress. I decided it needed the heat of the oven to rise properly. I said a little prayer and divided the dough among the baking forms. They went into the oven; I set the timer.
The eggs were hard boiled, the kettle had boiled water. I took out the jars, put the “color sheets” in each, a few table spoons of vinegar, and topped it off with boiling water. The kids watched , they were ready, eager with anticipation. Read more