by Melanie Ross Levin, Development Manager at Jewish Federation of Delaware
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Growing up, my dad, Dean Ross, had a bagel shop. What that practically meant was that his day started at 2 AM. While the rest of the world slept, he was already at his shop, shaping dough, boiling it, baking it, and prepping for his customers.
Unlike most of my friends’ dads, who wore suits and commuted to the city, my dad was covered in flour and bagel seeds. His schedule was different, too. While other parents headed to the office, he had already put in a full day’s work. And when school let out in the afternoon, he was already home. He was tired, sure—but he was there.
He always smelled like bagels. There was flour in the cuffs of his jeans, poppy seeds in the car, sesame seeds in our shoes. Bagel seeds were just part of our lives.
And we ate a lot of bagels. Every day, there was a big paper bag on the counter with that day’s batch. I thought that was normal. I didn’t even know people froze bagels until college—we never had to. I also found out that most people slice bagels the wrong way—frankly, in a dangerous way. At camp, I became the unofficial bagel slicer for Shabbat, cutting hundreds every Saturday for brunch. I know how to do it right and fast.
When someone in our life retired, my dad didn’t just say congratulations. He baked them a giant bagel, something comically oversized. That was his way of showing someone they mattered. When someone faced a tough time, he dropped off a bag of bagels. He didn’t always ring the bell—he just left them out front—and they always knew who it was from.
And when he wanted something—an upgrade on a flight, a hard-to-get doctor’s appointment, a favor—he never showed up empty-handed. He brought bagels. It worked. All the time. We called it bagel power. It was his currency.
And nothing stopped him from opening that shop. Not even a blizzard.
During the Nor’easter in 1996, the snow came down so hard the city declared a state of emergency. No one was supposed to be on the roads—not by car, not even on foot. But that didn’t stop my dad. He bundled up and started walking the mile to the shop. On the way, he got stopped by the police.
But of course, they knew him. He gave them bagels and coffee. They didn’t give him a ticket—they gave him a ride.
When he got to the shop, he tore part of a cardboard box, scribbled “OPEN” on it, and stuck it into a giant snowbank out front. That’s the photo that ended up in the paper. “Why close?” he said. “You could lose business.”
While I didn’t continue the family business, I learned a lot just by watching. My dad has always been deeply involved in our local Jewish community. He never considered himself particularly religious—he’s the guy who rushes to the synagogue when the alarm goes off, the one who runs Mitzvah Day, and now, the President of the synagogue. He can talk to anyone, meet them where they are, and make them feel seen. And he always remembers to feed people.
Nowadays, my dad is retired. The shop has been sold. But he still bakes when there’s an emergency, and he still eats a lot of bagels. Some things never change.
What else could I ask for?
