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These almost-too-cute-to-eat hamantaschen are baked for a good cause
(New York Jewish Week) — Baker Michal Prevor, the founder and owner of Babka Bailout, makes hamantaschen at her Jersey City bakery all year long, not just for Purim. Her inventive fillings of the triangular-shaped cookie include guava jam, dulce de leche and date nut.
Ahead of the festive holiday of Purim this year, which begins on the evening of March 6, Prevor decided to kick the creativity up a notch: She’s gone a bit wild, offering a collection of hamantaschen that are decorated to look like animals.
“When I was a little girl I ate with my eyes,” Prevor, 47, told the New York Jewish Week. “I always wanted to buy anything that looked like a character.”
Inspired by some googly eyes that she had leftover in her kitchen from Halloween, Prevor created the fanciful cookies, which sell for $6 each. Decorated as bunnies, kittens, giraffes and bears, the hamantaschen are almost too cute to eat. But make no mistake: Iced with white chocolate or dark chocolate and filled with a choice of nutella, dulce de leche or cookie butter — fillings she feels kids would like — the cookies are meant to be consumed and enjoyed.
As both her animal-themed hamantaschen and the unusual name of her bakery business might suggest, Prevor is not one to do the expected: The mom of two founded Babka Bailout in May 2020 at the height of the pandemic — despite the fact that she had never baked a babka before. Rather, her motivation was to help a friend who had fallen on hard times during lockdown and was having trouble feeding her family of five.
The plan, said Prevor, was to make and sell homemade babka and give the proceeds to their friend. Prevor, who lived in Hoboken at the time, went on a local moms’ Facebook group and wrote that she was selling babkas to help her friend. Within five minutes of posting, she sold 40 nutella or cinnamon babka at $14 each.
“The name for the company was my husband’s idea,” said Prevor. “Some people didn’t have the government to bail them out. Lots of people were left behind and not in great situations. The name was a fun spin — the babka would bail my friend out.”
Prevor’s husband, Grant, a home builder who bakes as a hobby, made that first batch of babka, while Prevor watched and learned. Their two daughters, Ariel and Amelie, who were 15 and 12 years old at time, pitched in, too. “Everyone was working,” said Prevor. “All hands on deck. It gave us a schedule, and it made my kids busy at a time when a lot of kids were very depressed.”
From there, Prevor started baking every week. “I was making hundreds of babkas a week from home,” she said. “It was quite an adventure. I had to start very early — the babkas had to rise. The oven could only fit eight babkas at a time, and it took 45 minutes to bake the babkas in the home oven at 350 degrees.”
“My oven door literally fell off from all of the opening and closing,” she added.
Prevnor had never baked babka before she launched Babka Bailout in May 2020. Since then, she’s expanded her menu with inventive creations. (Michelle Gevint)
Two months after Babka Bailout launched, Prevor began experimenting with different babka flavors, like cereal milk and oreos-and-nutella (both suggested by her daughters). In March 2021, she added hamantaschen for Purim. Prevor tested more than 40 different recipes for hamantaschen until she came up with an amalgamation that she felt was best — and decided to keep what she calls her favorite cookie permanently on the menu.
For flavor inspiration, Prevor said she draws upon the diverse populations of New York and Jersey City, in particular, as well as her own multi-cultural background: Prevor spent the first six years of her life on a moshav (an agricultural cooperative) in the Sinai Peninsula where her father, Ofer Rozenfeld, grew melons and flowers.
In 1981, ahead of Israel’s impending withdrawal from from the Sinai, the family moved to Santo Domingo, the capital of the Dominican Republic, where her father continued his farming. Then, a few years later, when Prevor’s older brother turned 18, the family returned to Israel so that he, and the other four children in the family, could eventually serve in the Israel Defense Forces.
Following her service, Prevor moved to New York where she attended New York University and double majored in political science and journalism. A year after graduation, she married Grant, a fellow Spanish-speaking Jew who grew up in Puerto Rico. In 2005, when their first daughter was 10 months old, the family moved to New Jersey.
Prior to the COVID-19 pandemic, Prevor sold irrigation equipment designed by her father. She had her last business meeting via Zoom in March 2020 — and two months later, she came face-to-face with her friend’s financial problems and decided to help. “Giving back to the community and tzedakah have always been indoctrinated into my upbringing,” Prevor said. “My parents took care of anybody they came into contact with who needed help. And I think that is part of having a Jewish soul.”
Babka Bailout’s business has continued to grow — in addition to online orders via their web site, Prevor’s products can be found at Butterfield Market, a gourmet grocery store on Madison Avenue and 85th Street.
Last September, Babka Bailout moved to a commercial kitchen in Jersey City, where Prevor and her family now live. She now has a storefront connected to the bakery where passersby stop in to buy treats — many Manhattanites place advance orders and make the short trip over the Hudson themselves, Prevor said.
“We are getting their hamantaschen for Purim this year,” said Joelle Obsatz, owner of Butterfield Market. “They have faces on it. I have never seen anything like it — I think it will be a hit. We will only be selling our house-made hamantaschen and Babka Bailout’s.”
As for Prevor’s previously down-on-her-luck friend, she now assists Prevor in the kitchen. These days, Prevor donates portions of Babka Bailout’s proceeds to numerous organizations, including Welcome Home Jersey City, an organization that supports refugees arriving in the area. “Whenever there is an opportunity to help, I do, either by baking or donating money,” she said. “Whenever an organization asks, my rule of thumb is to help.”
While Prevor may have never intended to become a professional baker, it’s clear she’s established a perfect niche for herself and her community. “In our little shop, people that pick up our baked goods come from all over — the Arab world, the Philippines, Latin America. Once they try them, they are hooked,” she said. “That kind of ties into all my flavors. I love diversity. I love learning from other people and taking flavors from other countries and making everybody feel welcome.”
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Slovenia’s last Jewish institution endures through desecration and decay
On a Saturday morning last July, Robert Baruh Waltl watched two processions converge on central Ljubljana. From one direction, near the river, came a column of neo-Nazis chanting nationalist slogans chanting “Long live Slovenia.” From the other came pro-Palestinian marchers singing “from the river to the sea”.
The city, he notes drily, is very small. “You could see both demonstrations at the same time,” he told me over a video call from his office. “Far right from one side, far left from the other.”
In Slovenia, this is what the view looks like from the only Jewish institution in the country.
The Jewish Cultural Center Ljubljana, which Waltl has directed since its founding in 2013, is overextended by design and necessity. In the absence of a synagogue elsewhere, it functions as one. It is also a cultural center, a museum, and, increasingly, a one-man operation.
“If I’m not in Ljubljana,” Waltl says, “there is no one to even open the door.” For more than a decade, the center has run almost entirely on donations, German embassy micro-grants, and cross-subsidies from Waltl’s adjacent performance space, the Mini Theater. The Slovenian government has never provided stable funding. Applications to the Ministry of Culture go unanswered. “They tell us the Festival of Tolerance is the most important anti-racism event in Slovenia,” Waltl says, speaking of an open event organized by him and the community, “and we don’t receive a single euro for it.”
Waltl did not grow up Jewish. He was born near the Austrian border and moved to Ljubljana as a young man to study theater. Then came a letter from the local Jewish community: did he know that his grandmother had been Jewish? He didn’t. He began attending events, cautiously at first. A trip to Israel changed things. He started reading, learning Hebrew and collecting Judaica. Eventually, he underwent a formal conversion — a giyur — at a liberal congregation in Frankfurt. “I said, OK, now I’m so deep,” he recalls. “I will never feel truly Jewish if I don’t take this last step.”
The community he joined had only barely survived the 20th century. Before the Second World War, Slovenia’s largest Jewish population lived in the Prekmurje region in the northeast. Most were deported to Auschwitz after 1941; roughly 90% were killed. In Ljubljana itself, Jews had been expelled in 1515, and the postwar communist Yugoslav government did nothing to restore their memory: cemeteries and schools were destroyed or simply left to ruin. By the time Waltl arrived, the standard answer when Ljubljana tour guides were asked about Jewish history was blunt: no Jews after 1515. “They didn’t know anything about the Holocaust,” he says. “Nothing about anything.”
His response was methodical. He installed the first memorial plaque on the site of Ljubljana’s medieval synagogue. In 2014, at a gathering of young Jewish leaders in Berlin, he met Gunter Demnig, the German artist behind the Stolpersteine project, and brought the initiative home. Today, Ljubljana and surrounding cities have 68 stumbling stones and one large stone commemorating 150 Jewish refugees expelled from Croatia who sheltered in Ljubljana. He co-founded the Festival of Tolerance with Branko Lustig, the Auschwitz survivor and double Oscar-winning producer of Schindler’s List and Gladiator, born in Osijek, Croatia, who brought early credibility and international reach to the project before his death.
For years, the center also served as a functioning synagogue, anchored by a wave of Israeli tourism. After the Jewish congregation of Slovenia lost its premises in 2014 and moved into Waltl’s building, the arrangement found its footing through sheer numbers. According to Walt 50,000 to 60,000 Israeli tourists visited Slovenia each summer and many of these came to services organized by a Chabad rabbi from Trieste, Ariel Hadad. Then COVID hit. The tourists vanished. So did the rabbi. The pandemic forced a theological rethinking: Waltl discovered liberal Judaism through the Central Synagogue of New York’s online programming and began working with a rabbi from Luxembourg, who now visits several times a year alongside a rabbi from Vienna. When there is money to bring them, they come.
Oct. 7 transformed the center’s situation entirely. On November 6, 2023, someone painted a large swastika equated with a Star of David on the center’s front door. The Jewish graveyard was desecrated during the Festival of Tolerance. When Waltl attempted to screen footage from the Hamas attack for the city’s diplomatic corps, hundreds of pro-Palestinian demonstrators gathered outside and tried to set the doors on fire. The screening was cancelled. There is no Israeli embassy in Slovenia, and no other address for the anger. “In their eyes, we represent Israel,” Waltl says. “We represent everything bad happening in the Middle East.”
Today the center carries a 60,000-euro mortgage taken out for emergency renovations after earthquakes damaged the 500-year-old building, leaving water leaking and unsustainable structural issues. Robert thought that he would receive some sort of financial help from the government to keep this, the only Jewish center in the country, running, but he was unpleasantly surprised to have received none. Since Oct. 7 the relationship with the government soured even more: the prime minister and the president used to show up for Holocaust Remembrance Day and Chanukah festivities, but stopped, says Waltl.
This month, Slovenia changed leadership again, with Israel ally Janez Janša returning as prime minister.
Some other signs of hope: The Rothschild Foundation recently awarded a grant for the country’s first permanent exhibition on Jewish history in Slovenia, set to open this September. The German Embassy contributed 3,000 euros. American tourists — a growing presence — help cover operating costs through summer donations. But the structural problem remains unchanged: roughly 150 Jews, one institution, and a government that adopted the expansive International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance definition of antisemitism, which encompasses anti-Israel actions, while declining to fund the sole organization actually sustaining the community.
“If I say I will stop doing this,” Waltl says, “there will be no Jewish life in Slovenia anymore.”
The post Slovenia’s last Jewish institution endures through desecration and decay appeared first on The Forward.
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Volatility, Hit Frequency, and RTP: Why the Number Casinos Advertise Is the Least Useful One
The return to player percentage looks clean as a casino data point. It gives players a neat number, usually around 94% to 97% for many online slots, and that number feels easy to compare. A 96.5% game appears better than a 95.2% game. The problem starts when players treat RTP as a forecast for their next 50 spins or one evening.
You may find the RTP listed on slot pages on a leading online casino in Ontario, but the number only tells part of the story. Two games can share the same RTP and create different sessions: one may return small wins often, while the other may drain a balance before one bonus round changes everything.
The RTP Trap
Return to player (RTP) measures the theoretical share of total wagers a game returns across a very large number of rounds. In plain terms, a 96% RTP slot returns about $96 for every $100 wagered in the long run. That does not mean one player who deposits $100 should expect $96 back.
The trap sits in the word “theoretical.” RTP comes from the game’s math model. It works across huge samples, not personal sessions. A player can finish far above that percentage, far below it, or with nothing left after a short run of poor results.
Is it useless then? No, RTP can still help. It gives a baseline cost of play. Lower-RTP games cost more on average than higher-RTP games. Still, once a game passes a reasonable threshold, the next question matters more: how does it distribute that return?
Hit Frequency: The Number That Shapes Session Feel
Hit frequency tells you how often a game produces a winning outcome. This often misleads players because any win can count. A spin that returns $0.10 on a $1 bet may still count as a hit, even though the player lost $0.90 in real terms.
A game can feel active because symbols connect often, sounds play, and the screen keeps celebrating small returns. The balance may still fall. In many modern slots, “win” does not always mean profit on the spin.
Hit frequency answers one practical question: how much silence can you tolerate? Some players dislike long dry spells. Others accept quieter sessions because they chase bonus rounds or larger payouts.
The educational site Get Gambling Facts gives a useful distinction: RTP concerns the percentage of money returned over time, while hit frequency concerns how often a machine stops on a winning combination.
Volatility: The Risk Label Players Need More Often
Volatility, also called variance, describes how unevenly a game pays. Low-volatility games tend to return smaller amounts more often. High-volatility games hold more value in rare events: bonus rounds, premium symbols, multipliers, or jackpots.
Here is where RTP becomes less useful on its own:
- A 96% low-volatility slot may give modest returns and longer play from the same balance.
- A 96% high-volatility slot may burn through funds quickly unless the player hits a strong feature.
- A progressive jackpot game may look exciting, but it often places more value on rare top prizes.
The same RTP can hide very different risk profiles. Players who ignore volatility often blame the casino or the game when the session follows its math design.
Why the Same RTP Can Feel So Different
Picture two slots with 96% RTP. Slot A pays small wins on many spins, has a modest top prize, and rarely creates dramatic balance swings. Slot B pays less often but offers a large max win and volatile bonus rounds. The advertised return matches, but the experience does not.
Slot A may suit a player who wants a slower bankroll drop and more regular feedback. Slot B suits someone who accepts sharper losses in exchange for a shot at a heavier payout.
A Better Way to Read a Slot Page
Most slot pages give players more clues than they notice. The trick is to read the details together rather than chase the highest percentage.
Start with RTP. If two games look similar, the higher number has better long-term value. Then check volatility. If the game uses terms such as high, very high, or extreme variance, lower your bet size or expect shorter sessions. Next, look at the paytable. A huge max win usually means the game saves a lot of its value for rare outcomes.
A sensible pre-play check looks like this:
- RTP: What is the average long-term return?
- Volatility: How rough can the session become?
- Hit frequency: How often will the game show any wins?
- Paytable: Where does most value sit?
To Conclude
Casinos advertise RTP because it looks objective, tidy, and easy to rank. Players should read it, but they should not give it more authority than it deserves. For long sessions, volatility may matter more than a small RTP difference. For comfort, hit frequency may explain the feel better than the payback rate.
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Lahmeyer, pastor who says Antichrist will be Jewish, heads to Oklahoma GOP runoff
(JTA) — Jackson Lahmeyer, a pastor who supports Israel and believes the Antichrist will be Jewish, is headed to a runoff in his district’s Oklahoma congressional primary.
The Donald Trump-backed Lahmeyer will face off against Mark Tedford, a member of the state House of Representatives from Tulsa, in the August runoff to decide who will be the Republican candidate for Congress in Oklahoma’s 1st Congressional District.
The runoff will pit candidates with two very different approaches to politics, and Israel, against each other at a time when the Republican Party is divided on multiple lines. Lahmeyer is part of Trump’s MAGA movement, while Tedford is a more traditional conservative. Both men promote a hard line on immigration, but Lahmeyer’s rhetoric has been peppered with incendiary claims about efforts by Muslims to establish “sharia law” in the United States.
While both competitors are also evangelical Christians with training in ministry, Lahmeyer works as a pastor and preaches an end-times theology that includes an Antichrist with Jewish heritage. Lahmeyer is also a vocal supporter of Israel, in keeping with his Christian Nationalist outlook, while Tedford has made few if any public comments about Israel or the war in Gaza.
The two candidates pulled far ahead of the pack in Tuesday’s crowded primary, which attracted 11 candidates to fill an open seat. Tedford received 32.1% of the votes, and Lahmeyer drew 25.9%, according to the Oklahoma State Election Board.
Lahmeyer had been seen as a favorite, but his star fell in the days before the election amid revelations that he had been unfaithful to his wife. (He said the episode, which he confirmed, was a private matter and in the past, and Trump reaffirmed his endorsement following the revelation.)
Few if any of the nine candidates who did not make the runoff are part of the MAGA movement, suggesting that Tedford could see more of their supporters turn to him in November.
“We need everyone who came out today to keep fighting until we succeed,” Lahmeyer said in a statement to local media. “Let’s send a Trump-endorsed warrior to fight for Oklahoma values in Congress.”
The district is solidly red, virtually assuring the primary winner of victory in November. The Democratic candidate, John Croisant, is a Tulsa school board member who has not spoken publicly about Israel or Gaza, issues that are occupying some Democrats.
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
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