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125 

Amuse Bouche 
 
Mandelbroit 
 
By: Jillian Gould 
 

Abstract: Using mandelbroit (aka “Jewish biscotti”) as a springboard, this short 
personal history reflects on the life of the author’s mother, in all her complexity.  
 
Keywords: baked goods, baking, daughters, families, family narratives, Judaism, 
mothers, recipes 

 
Mom had many regrets. From not going to university and pursuing a career, to not buying 
the house across the street on the ravine lot, to not marrying Joe Lebovic. Occasionally, she 
also would lament that she should have set up a business to sell her mandelbroit. In our 
circle of family and friends, she was known as a terrific baker: brownies and chocolate chip 
shortbread; banana cake and peach pie. Her mandelbroit, however, were legendary. 
Toasted almonds, coconut and dried cherries. Not too sweet, so nice with tea or coffee. 
 
In our kitchen, the cookie jar was always full. Mandel translates from Yiddish as almond, 
and broit is bread. These biscuits also are known as mandel bread, mandelbrot, Jewish 
biscotti, or simply biscotti, but for us, they were always mandelbroit. Mandelbroit go into 
the oven as two logs (or “loaves”), which are cut into slices after the first bake. Mom’s 
recipe has less flour than other versions I’ve seen, so the dough can be quite sticky, and it 
spreads; not really loaf-like. Nevertheless, the magic of heat changes all that, and sprinkled 
with cinnamon and sugar for the second bake, they come out toasty and crunchy and 
delicious.  
 
My mother’s parents, David and Rose (Kraft) Moran, were born in Eastern Europe—Bubby 
came from Kryzhopil, near Odessa, while Zaidy’s town was closer to Poland. They came to 
Canada with their respective families as young teenagers, after the Russian Revolution in 
1917. Both were employed in the garment industry in downtown Toronto: David was a 
tailor, and Rose worked in a factory. David and Rose had three children: Harry (b. 1927), Lil 
(b. 1930), and my mother (b. 1942). When my mother was born, Rose and David were 
approached by a neighbor who asked if they would name their baby after the neighbor’s 
deceased relative. The request was in line with a Jewish naming custom to honor family 
members who had died. I imagine the neighbor and her husband either didn’t have 
children, or they were not having more. Thankfully, my mother would say, Lil convinced 
her parents that Yetta was not a suitable name for her new little sister, and instead 
suggested Marilyn. Mom was forever grateful. Pretty and fun and open and carefree, the 
name Marilyn suited her. While she narrowly missed getting an “old world” moniker, I 
think her signature cookies, and the Yiddish name for them, kept her close to her parents’ 
immigrant roots. Mandelbroit are heimish (homey) and unpretentious, just like she was. 
 



    Gould, Mandelbroit, Digest: A Journal of Foodways & Culture 8:1/2 (2021) 126 

When I think about my mother, I also think about her mother (my bubby), my aunts and 
cousins, and my sister – a chain of women who informed me: how I prepare for holidays, 
light Sabbath candles, set a Passover table, and also how I make mandelbroit.  
 
Mom was all enthusiasm: parties and simchas1, concerts, dance, and theatre. She loved 
being in new places, and experiencing life through many lenses. My dad said he was so 
impressed because she read the Russians. Also, because she was very beautiful. He said 
when he picked her up for their first outing—it was a blind date, Jerry Cooper set them 
up—that he saw Mom’s picture on the mantel and thought: I hope that’s her! It was, and as 
my dad told the story, it was love at first sight. My father was the only child of a fastidious 
father and a doting mother. Whenever he dated someone who wasn’t Jewish, he’d lie about 
her name and tell his mother: “I’m going out with Rochelle Schwartzberg,” even if her name 
was Peggy Wilson. But when he started to date my mother, he used her real name: Marilyn 
Moran. “That’s not Jewish!” his mother yelled. “An Irish!” He insisted she was Jewish, but 
his mother didn’t believe him. On their third date my parents went canoeing. When he told 
his mother, she raised her finger in triumph: “Aha!” she shrilled. “Jewish girls don’t go in 
boats!” 
 
My mother liked to do her own thing. She wore leather pants in the 1980s and insisted that 
a Pontiac Trans Am would be an acceptable car for our family of five. As the youngest, I had 
to sit on the bump in the middle—my older brother and sister on either side. I hated it, but 
for a few years anyway, it was how we rolled. My father would say: “Marilyn is a genius in 
the art of living.” 
 
Vilde chaye. Wild animal. Mom’s hair in the morning was wild. Sometimes in the afternoon 
as well. Dad called her vilde chaye and said her father would say the same thing. Sometimes 
it seemed like Mom was a wild animal. She would yell and scream: “I’ll break your neck!” 
“I’ll break your head!” “I’ll give you a lickin’!” I never got a licking, but her temper could 
rage. I pushed her buttons. And yet even though I remember these tempestuous moments, 
she had such warmth and love; she was my Mama Bird, laughing and talking on the phone 
with her many friends while she baked. The cord was pulled as far as it would go; she’d talk 
and laugh and listen and whisper. Always in the kitchen, always baking or cooking. 
Sometimes she baked in the middle of the night, or was it early in the morning? She baked 
while we were sleeping.  
 
She was a wonderful baker and host—parties and people and food, so much food. Her 
cooking matched her baking skills: quiches and meatballs and brisket and chicken soup. 
Her kitchen, though, was always a mess. Papers everywhere: The Toronto Star, The New 
Yorker, grocery flyers, The Bayview Post, The Canadian Jewish News, bar mitzvah and 
wedding invitations, letters and bills long overdue. Recently my friend Hanna remarked on 
how she appreciates the practice of cleaning up as one cooks, “the way our mothers taught 
us,” she said. But my mother never taught me that. I learned so much from watching her, 
but not how to clean up.  
 
I think of her life and all the contradictions. The love we saw between our parents, as well 
as the way they fought and yelled. They were married for nearly fifty years, and it was all 



Digest: A Journal of Foodways & Culture 8:1/2 (2021)  

 
127 

there: deep love and vicious words, support and anger, exasperation and despair. The 
parties and friends and hosting, as well as a kitchen in chaos —every counter covered—
shoving papers in bags before the guests arrived; moving the mess into the laundry room, 
so full you could barely shut the door. I think of a fridge with chopped liver and pastrami 
and pickles sharing shelf space with bacon and bologna. I recall screaming and slamming 
doors, and I recall love and hugs and my thoughtful, caring mother. When I was pregnant 
with my first child, I called my mom to share the ultrasound news. “It’s so nice your first 
baby will be a girl,” she said. “That way you know you’ll always have a daughter.” I think of 
those words now, as I reflect on our lives—so grateful for the value she placed on the 
mother-daughter relationship, and also what might be in store for me: the drama, the 
shouting, but most of all, the love. 
 
Mom didn’t make other cookies often: “Too much patchekerai” (too much fuss), she’d say. I 
also don’t like to make cookies but I love to make mandelbroit. Now they are my signature 
cookie. Anyone who knew my mother knew her mandelbroit, and I wanted them to be my 
recipe as well.  
 
I bring them to class and meetings and parties. I bring them on airplanes. I make them 
weekly. Each step of the recipe, there she is: my mother in all her complexity. I wonder, 
what did Mom think about when she made these biscuits? Did it mean something? Did 
baking Jewish connect her with her mother? Her Yiddish roots?  
 
My recipe is different from hers. In my mother’s version, chocolate chips were negotiable, 
but not in my house—chocolate chips are the only way my kids will eat them. As I think 
about this difference, I also think about change: family dynamics and relationships, families 
over time, lives lived and remembered, windows into mothers and mothering, life without 
a mother. Baking mandelbroit is something I do because it’s a part of me. Some weeks they 
are stacked in the cookie jar and I’m the only one who eats them, other weeks they are 
happily devoured by family and friends. I continue to make them however, even if no one 
wants them. I make them to remember. 
 
 
Here are the recipes. Hers and mine:  
 
Marilyn Gould’s Mandelbroit 
(The original) 
 
1 cup of vegetable oil or canola oil 
3 eggs 
1 cup of sugar (or a little less) 
2 cups all-purpose flour 
2 teaspoons baking powder 
3/4 cup chopped almonds or walnuts 
1 cup of coarsely crushed "Special K" cereal 
1/4 cup of shredded coconut. (This amount can be adjusted to taste.)  
1/2 cup of cranberries, dried cherries, or chocolate chips  



    Gould, Mandelbroit, Digest: A Journal of Foodways & Culture 8:1/2 (2021) 128 

1 teaspoon of vanilla extract 
Cinnamon  
 
Beat the eggs, add the sugar, then add alternately the dry ingredients with the oil. Add 
vanilla extract, coconut, almonds, dried fruit, and cereal. Using your hands, shape the 
mixture into two thick rolls and line them on a well-greased cookie sheet. Leave room 
because they spread. Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes. Take it out of the oven and slice it 
diagonally—the slices are half an inch thick—and place on their sides, cut side up. Sprinkle 
cinnamon and put back in the oven for 15 minutes until they are a little golden. Cool and 
enjoy! 
 
My version: 
1 cup of vegetable or canola oil 
3 eggs 
1 cup of sugar (or a little less) 
2 cups all-purpose flour 
2 teaspoons baking powder 
3/4 cup chopped almonds or walnuts (optional) 
1 cup chocolate chips 
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract 
 cinnamon sugar (ratio ¼ cup sugar + 1 tablespoon cinnamon—will make plenty for next 
time) 
 
Beat the eggs, add the sugar, then add alternately the dry ingredients with the oil. Add 
vanilla, almonds and chocolate chips. Using a spoon and a rubber spatula, shape the 
mixture into two thick rolls and line them on a cookie sheet with parchment paper. Leave 
room because they spread. Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes. Take it out of the oven and 
slice it diagonally -- the slices are half an inch thick (maybe more) -- and place on their 
sides, cut side up. Sprinkle liberally with cinnamon sugar (about 1 tablespoon) and put 
back in the oven for 15 minutes until they are a little golden. Cool and enjoy! 
 
 

 
Notes:  
 
1 (Yiddish) – joyous lifecycle events such as weddings or baby namings. 
 
This piece was developed from a writing prompt in Molly Wizenberg’s “Food and Memoir” online workshop 
(July 2020)—thanks to Molly for helpful feedback, as well as to family, friends, and colleagues for reading and 
sharing their thoughts—especially Jonathan Gould (my brother), Hanna Griff-Sleven, and Diane Tye. I was 
nervous about capturing my mother on the page, but I hope her warmth shines, and that the reader will 
understand her “in all her complexity” (thanks for the words, Diane!). 
 


