Cincinnati Volunteers Roll Out “Challah Share” Before The New Year
On the Shabbat before Rosh HaShanah, Cincinnati tried something delightfully new: it baked—well, at least a local store did for week one. Challah Share, a volunteer-run effort, set out to make sure any Jewish home that wanted to welcome Shabbat could do it with the basics on the table. Flour, grape juice, honey. Nothing epic, nothing bureaucratic. Just a loaf, a blessing, and the audacity to bet that a little sweetness could tilt a week in the right direction.
A hot-button challah post lit up a local Jewish feed. Cincinnati natives Aaron Binik-Thomas and Justin Hue answered with logistics, not lectures: “If you needed a challah, we’ll buy you one.” They grabbed a shopping cart, steered past Pumpkin-Butter Mountain, snagged the last challah loaves, and—by sheer luck—escaped the parking lot like the Red Sea had parted.
“If the only thing stopping you from having Shabbat is the basics, we’ll take care of it,” Aaron told me. “Let’s make sure everyone gets a challah.”
They kept the plan close to home. They partnered with AD120 Jewish Events and local Jewish businesses; they collected donations, sourced kosher loaves, packed bags, and shared with anyone who signed up. Week one was modest; week three could be bigger. Either way, each bag included challah, grape juice, and honey—because the New Year deserved a sweet start.
If the model felt familiar, it’s because it was quietly Israeli in spirit. Israel runs less on sprawling food banks and more on street-corner logistics—a block chat, a neighbor who knows a neighbor, a family that assembles two to four Shabbat boxes and leaves them, no fanfare, by the back door. Challah Share borrowed that muscle memory: neighbors noticing each other and acting. Think Midwestern friendliness meets Israeli chutzpah—the Cincinnati “I’ve got a minute” paired with the Israeli “I’ve got this.”
Justin put it this way: “This is Jews supporting Jews, in a time when we need each other more than ever.” His metric for success was intentionally small: “If one person is in need, and they are getting what they need for Shabbat, that is a massive metric of success.”
Dikla Karito, who founded AD120, was all in. “We can do something big and beautiful out of it,” she said. “From the Jewish community to the Jewish community.” She described the early reactions simply: “People appreciate it and love it. People texted me privately that they thanked me for the program.” And the aim: “People that can afford to buy a challah want that (Shabbat) experience. Not all Jews have that on a weekly basis. The money stays and goes within the Jewish community.”
The setup stayed intentionally light. There was a sign-up form. Organizers asked only what they needed to coordinate pickup or delivery. A few families requested drop-off; drivers raised their hands without hesitation. “We had a handful offer funds and a handful offer time. We were looking for more of both—drivers, packers, donors,” Aaron said. Everything was kosher and the effort was kept in the community—planned, packed, and delivered by local Jews.
And that first Friday? Four families came through the pickup and left with apples, honey, challah, grape juice, and Shabbat candles—plus those candle-lighting-times fridge magnets that save you from Googling at the last minute. All of it tucked into a gym bag: possibly the most Cincinnati-meets-Tel-Aviv starter kit ever assembled.
Barry Silbergeit—who showed up and left excited—liked that all the carbs stayed in the neighborhood. “Challah Share is bringing us together,” he told me. “Jews sharing together strengthens our Jewish identity.”
By sundown, the internet drama was downgraded to a Shabbat goody bag—debate threads snipped, magnets and candles packed, the whole kit cinched into a trendy tote. The New Year vibes? Round challah—and a hope to go bigger next year: more loaves, more neighbors, same local hands. Cincinnati nice met Tel Aviv get-it-done, and everyone went home a little sweeter. Shanah Tovah!
