Two or three times a year, at no particular day, month or season, my father would get an irresistible urge to bake koochen. This need was akin to salmon swimming upstream or gravity swimming down. It was a genetic command from the Great Chef in the Sky, an Event with a capital “E,” the ripples of which traveled from Glencoe to Highland Park to Chicago, to touch aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, friends and friends of friends with the easily decoded burst of Intelligence: “Sam is baking koochen.”

In the small universe that we inhabited, my father’s koochen was world-renowned. It was something over which prospective victims would groan, “Sam, you could throw it against a wall, and the wall would break,” but which everybody would eat anyway. There was a compelling quality about this heavier-than-air pastry. “I know I’m going to break my front teeth on the first bite.” A quality greater than just the love with which it was baked. “Oh, no, Sam. Not again. My insurance policy doesn’t cover eating injuries.” A quality of meeting, and overcoming one of life’s challenges.

My father’s koochen.

Never did a man bake with such joyful abandon. Never was a kitchen brought to its knees with such a gleam of contentment in the ravager’s eyes.

Flour (lots of it).

Sugar (lots of it).

Cinnamon (a sprinkle here; a sprinkle there).

Dry cottage cheese (it has to be dry).

Vanilla extract (koochen is nothing without a heavy dose).

Eggs (yolk and all).