Tag: Pastries

Kiflice are the crescent rolls of the Balkan Jewish kitchen. These tender, flaky pastries — filled with walnuts, jam, or cheese — were a staple of Jewish life in Serbia, Croatia, and Bosnia. Each one is a perfect crescent moon of buttery dough, golden and fragrant from the oven, dusted with powdered sugar like fresh snowfall.

The Jewish communities of the Balkans created a cuisine that blended Sephardic, Ashkenazi, and local traditions into something entirely unique. Kiflice reflect that heritage — they share DNA with both Ashkenazi rugelach and Sephardic boyos, but they are distinctly Balkan in their shape, filling, and character.

The walnut filling is the most traditional: freshly ground walnuts mixed with sugar, a little egg white, and a whisper of lemon zest. It is earthy, sweet, and perfectly complemented by the rich, tender dough. These are the pastries that Balkan Jewish grandmothers made for every occasion worth celebrating.

Mohn cookies are the poppy seed cookies that Ashkenazi grandmothers baked by the sheet pan. Mohn is the Yiddish word for poppy seeds, and these simple, fragrant cookies have been a fixture of Jewish baking from Vilna to Vienna. They are crispy at the edges, tender in the middle, and speckled throughout with tiny blue-black poppy seeds that add a subtle nuttiness.

Poppy seeds hold a special place in Ashkenazi cuisine. They appear in hamantaschen filling, strudels, and rolls (mohnstrudel), but these humble cookies may be the simplest and most satisfying way to enjoy them. A hint of lemon zest brightens the flavor, while a generous amount of poppy seeds gives each bite a delicate crunch.

These are not fussy cookies. No piping bags, no tempering chocolate, no rolling and cutting. Just mix, scoop, bake, and enjoy with a cup of tea. They are the kind of cookie that belongs in a tin on the kitchen counter, ready for anyone who walks through the door.

Rogaliki are the crescent-shaped cookies that Russian and Polish Jewish grandmothers shaped by the dozens. Each tiny crescent — no bigger than your thumb — wraps a tender cream cheese dough around a sweet filling of jam, walnuts, or poppy seeds. They are the kind of cookie that disappears from the plate before you realize you have eaten six.

The name comes from the Slavic word for “little horns,” describing their curved crescent shape. In Jewish communities from Moscow to Minsk, from Odessa to Warsaw, rogaliki appeared at every simcha, every kiddush, every tea-time gathering. They are cousins of rugelach, sharing the same cream cheese dough tradition, but shaped differently and often filled with fruit preserves.

The magic of rogaliki is in the cream cheese dough. It bakes into something impossibly flaky — almost like a miniature croissant — while remaining tender and rich. The contrast between the crispy, golden exterior and the sweet, jammy interior is what keeps you reaching for one more.

Beigli is the crown jewel of Hungarian Jewish baking. This magnificent walnut-filled rolled pastry graced every holiday table in Budapest’s once-thriving Jewish quarter. Sliced crosswise to reveal its dark, intoxicating swirl of ground walnuts and sugar, beigli is the kind of pastry that makes you close your eyes on first bite.

Hungarian Jews brought beigli to Israel, to New York, to Buenos Aires — wherever they rebuilt their lives. Unlike many pastries that rely on butter, the Jewish version uses oil, making it pareve and suitable for any meal. The dough is tender, almost brioche-like, enriched with eggs and a touch of sour cream (use pareve substitute for this version), while the filling is dense, fragrant, and slightly bitter from freshly ground walnuts.

This recipe produces two generous rolls — one to slice and serve, one to wrap and freeze for the next celebration. Whether it is Rosh Hashanah, Purim, or simply a Tuesday that deserves something beautiful, beigli delivers.

In Hungarian Jewish tradition, beigli was always made in pairs — one walnut, one poppy seed. This recipe focuses on the walnut version, the undisputed favorite.