On Wednesday, I was smarter. I took out the Bosch immediately when I got home from work. Added the water. Checked the pantry. Oh no! I hadn’t remembered to buy the oil. But there was no pushing it off this time. My cousin was getting married on Thursday, my brother was arriving with his family from Montreal later that night, and my parents were coming the next day. And I still had to fit work in somewhere, too.

I grabbed my keys and drove to the nearest grocery. Without looking around, I picked up the oil, paid my bill, and made my way home. Putting up the dough was easy enough, and I was able to check that off my list.

It was a beautiful night, so after supper my husband and I snuck in a quick walk before starting the bath/bedtime routine. Once the littles were settled, I set out to flecht the dough. Back to the pantry. Oh no! I’d forgotten that when my daughter was helping me clean up last time I baked challah, she threw out my challah pans. (I reuse disposable pans from Pesach to Pesach, and it was only Tammuz) Good mother that I am, I just reminded her I reuse the pans, and and made a mental note to buy more pans when I went to the grocery.

Unfortunately, the note stayed mental, and the pans were still in the store despite tens of trips since then.

Back to the store. Once again, I was as efficient as anything and didn’t look around — I just grabbed the ten-inch oval challah pans and raced to the checkout. I was back home in record time. I flechted the dough (okay, I made balls for my pull-apart challah), and I roped my son into egging duty. (The girls were in camp, and who said boys can’t help in the kitchen?)

A few hours later, the challah was out of the oven and had already cooled off. They were just waiting for me to bag them and put them in the freezer. I opened the drawer to take out ziplock bags. Empty. And by now, you know the drill; the pantry didn’t yield any better results.

Back to the store for the third time? It was 11, my husband wasn’t home, and my big kids were in camp. Besides, hubby had the small car, and I didn’t want to drive the truck (a 12-passenger van that is not a Transit). A quick call to my neighbor, and I had ziplock bags in my hand. Boy, am I glad I didn’t call her to borrow oil and pans.

But there has to be another way.

And then I realized: Only really geshikt mothers can teach their boys to bake the challah. I’m on it.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 850)