Allerheiligenstriezel

Every year in late October, the bakeries in Salzburg fill their windows with braided loaves. Some have three strands, some four, some six. The most ambitious ones stack two braids on top of each other. These are Allerheiligenstriezel, and they appear for one reason: All Saints' Day on the first of November. Your Göd, your godfather, brings one to your door. That's the tradition. That's how it's done.

I learned to braid bread in my grandmother Eva's kitchen in Kent. Gretel always said that the dough tells you when it's ready. You press it with your finger and it pushes back slowly, like a cat stretching. That's when you know the yeast has done its work and the gluten has developed enough to hold the braid without tearing. She could braid six strands without looking down, her hands moving from memory, and I sat on my stool and watched until I could do it too.

The dough itself is simple. Good flour, good butter, eggs, milk, a little sugar, lemon zest, and Vanillezucker for that soft warmth that sits behind every great Austrian bake. You knead it until it's smooth and elastic, let it rise until it doubles, then roll it into long ropes and braid. The braiding is the craft. It looks complicated, but once your hands learn the pattern, it becomes rhythmic, almost meditative. Six over two, two over six, one over three, five over one, three over five. Again. Again. Again.

When it comes out of the oven, the crust is deep gold with a shine from the egg wash, pearl sugar catching the light, and the crumb inside is soft and rich and pulls apart in buttery layers. You tear off a piece while it's still warm and you don't need anything on it. No jam, no butter. Just the bread, which is already everything it needs to be.