Zupfe

Last weekend I decided to make Zupfe. Zupfe, for the un-informed, is one of the best things on this planet. It is so good, in fact, that you should phone my Dad right now and ask him for the recipe and then make a loaf.

After having Dad explain the finer points of the fine art of baking Zupfe, I started mixing and kneading the dough. I had some anxiety over it as it felt a bit too firm, but it rose gloriously. I cut the dough in half, braided it, brushed on the egg yolk, and popped it into the oven.

As I watched it slowly grow and glow golden-brown in the oven I swelled up with pride, feeling honored to be part of such a rich Swiss heritage that included delicious things as Zupfe (and Ovomaltine).

I checked up on it a while later and noticed that the flame in the little propane oven had gone out. I looked at the dial and noticed that it was turned off. Someone had shut off the oven while my Zupfe was inside!

I must have looked at the wrong dial, because when I lit a match and went to re-light the oven, a ball of fire the size of a beachball came wooshing out straight at my face.

When I shook off my suprise the first thing I did was feel for my eyebrows. Thank God! Still there. Then I looked at my arms. Oh no. Oh no. All that remained of almost 18 years of precious arm-hair growth was stubble and charred remains. Feeling around my head I realized that I also manged to reduce my hairline considerably.

One of the best aromas on this planet is that of a freshly baked Zupfe. One of the worst is that of burnt hair. Half a bottle of shampoo and three packs of frozen veggies later, I finally cut off a slice of my now baked to golden perfection Zupfe. I mixed up some honey and butter, spread on a little and started to eat. As soon as I bit down into that little slice of heaven I realized it was all worth it.

Didn't turn out as nice as Dad's, but I figured it was ok for a first time.