A short post-election note

:: deep breath ::

On Monday night, I was stretching on the floor in my candlelit bedroom when I asked a question I've asked many times - the very sincere question Judy Blume gave us years ago: 

"Are you there, God? It's me, Dre. [awkward pause]  I don't really know what to say to you anymore."

And for the first time, I heard a response: "Instead of speaking, why don't you listen?"

Listen.

I received this message on Monday- so before the election. But it rings even more true for me today. We'll have plenty to say and plenty of grieving, strategizing, organizing, boycotting and mutual aid to do in the coming days, weeks, months and years. But for now, I'm listening. The assignment will come.

Listen.

I Move at the Speed of Mountain

Sometimes I rumble & quake,

pulling apart at the seams

& opening new pathways.

Sometimes the howl of the wind shakes loose rocks from my surface.

I let them fall away.

Sometimes I spew water.

Other times its lava.

Either way, I will be

transformed

and you will be, too.

Sometimes flowers &

shrubs & trees sprout:

sweet, succulent plant life

that sprouts playful &

precious animal life.

I host life.

And I host destruction,

receiving lightning’s

fiery bolt

and welcoming

a wealth of water

that consumes all things.

I shift my plates & go

in a different direction -

on a whim.

I break ground.

I stand tall,

effortlessly,

growing from within,

recreating myself for millenia.

And here I am, just

looking like I’m sitting here.

Remember

after Joy Harjo

Remember - you are still an animal

hunting for dinner that the lion has killed

and left for you packaged

in styrofoam and plastic.

Remember the taste of the blood

before you learned

to marinate, pan sear and oven roast.

Remember the delight of finding a field of berry bushes

before they were picked for you

and sprayed with pesticides and gloss,

each berry picture perfect.

Remember how you learned watching familiars

instead of reading words

on chopped down trees

written by professionals.

Remember when you knew what to know

in the aliveness of your body,

in the stillness of your mind,

in the vastness of the land.

Remember when the berry

and the blood

were all you knew

and that was enough.

Mother Dumas Says: Mind your mouth

My Grandmother, Mother Dumas, in the late 80s

Y'all! Guess who visited me for my 45th birthday?! That's right - my grandmother!!! And she has a message y'all. It's been a few years since I dreamed about her, but when I do, it's powerful! So last night I had a very rich dinner (rigatoni bolognese, brussel sprouts with balsamic glaze & bacon bits, lots of focaccia with garlicky dipping oil and creme brule, as well as a hot toddy with non-alcoholic whiskey). About 4am I woke up with horrible acid reflux.

Eventually I fell back asleep and dreamed Grandmother was visiting me at the office of our family business. I was hugging her so tightly and telling her how much I missed her. Still as I write this, I can feel her body against mine. We needed to leave so she decided to wait at the front door while I was getting things together upstairs; when I went to check on her because I was taking so long, she was just fine, chatting with strangers who walked by. (that tracks)

Then we were at the airport; she had somewhere to go. I was still velcro’d to her body as we walked through the airport hugging...and she was STILL talking to strangers! LOL That's how the dream ended.

As I was making my morning tea today, I heard her message: "Mind your mouth, cher. What goes in AND what comes out".

But I'm sharing this with y'all because Grandmother was literally talking to strangers in the dream! So, for whoever needs it...

Mother Dumas says, "Mind your mouth, dear. What goes in AND what comes out."

Milk Line Rolls - Part 9

Upclose of a one dollar bill stamped with a purple peace sign, photo by Andrea Sexton Dumas

At some point during the holiday season, Kashina and her family stopped by our house. Bella asked again, “Auntie Andrea, can you make those rolls for me?” I explained that they took hours to make, so I’d have to plan it out ahead of time, but she didn’t understand and looked disappointed. 

In the later weeks, research and development continued with a half batch of dough in the freezer: knead, rise, punch it down, form, freeze. I read that when you thaw the dough, they’d rise naturally in about five hours, then you bake like normal (similar to store-bought frozen dough).

I emailed my writing partner and Sikh brother Sim about writing my recipe restoration process. That night, I dreamt that one of his male ancestors was watching over my left shoulder as I wrote their family a holiday card. His face and dastaar weren’t visible to me, but his presence was strong. I was trying to draw a peace sign in the card, but the lines were crooked.

The next day, while driving to a friend’s house for a few days in the woods, I called Sim to discuss the dream and who the ancestor could be. Baji: his maternal Grandfather. He was a writer and linguist, whose principal values were hard work and honesty. Throughout the day I felt Baji’s spirit:

If Sim is your brother, then I am your Grandfather, too. If all of humanity is related, I am everyone’s Grandfather.  

I remembered Karen’s dream where I stood up and commanded, “peace”. Here in my own dream, I couldn’t draw the peace sign accurately, but Baji was quietly watching my efforts. 

Like the universal Grandmother rising to work with me to make Gran’s rolls, the universal Grandfather showed up through Baji to support me as I wrote about it. I held back tears as I drove and had a realization…

When Bella asked me to make rolls for her, she called me, as she always calls me, Auntie. But I always referred to her as my cousin. Up until that very moment, I thought I only had one niece and nephew, Sean’s sister’s kids Hugo and Nayeli. But many of my cousins’ and friends’ kids call me Auntie. Bella was asking me to be her milk line: to feed her, quite literally. She was summoning me into position.

Gran and Baji, the ladies from church, Sister, The Aunties all supported me as I located my role in the lineage.  Certainly as much as I need to knead, I myself am needed and in an apprenticeship with the milk line. Research and development, as it were.

Later at the house in the woods, I took out the frozen dough. Thaw, rise, bake, cool, taste. Still delicious; the roll recipe is complete.

About a week after we got back from the woods as I prepared to walk Churro, I noticed a dollar bill that Sean had left on the countertop; it had been stamped with a purple peace sign.

Milk Line Rolls - Part 8

A well-known blogger just posted a roll recipe from another well-known social media and tv personality. Old School Dinner Rolls. They use a bit more flour than I do, but it's essentially the same recipe. The author and publisher of the roll recipe is from Louisiana.  

And it’s called Kissingcrust. It’s that not-laminated-but-pull-apart-able soft bit in between two rolls. Kissingcrust.  

Turns out this blog was posted in early October, several weeks before I started this odyssey, but I was just now seeing it, well into December.

The timing.

A few weeks passed without any roll-baking and my synchronistic dreams reshaped themselves into adrenaline and cortisol producing box office hits with ridiculous plot lines that induced morning headaches. Meanwhile, Sean and I agreed that we’d drop off rolls to The Auntie’s Christmas Supper (masked and social-distanced) on the 25th. On Christmas Eve, I dreamt that I was volunteering for hospice patients, something I’m planning to do IRL in the new year. I don’t remember anything else from that dream, but I woke up feeling good.

That morning Karen messages me that she had a Matrix-style dream. I stood up amid the chaos and with a strong voice commanded, “PEACE.”  

I started mixing the ingredients.  

Knead, rise, punch it down, form…

I decided to recreate a tradition from Mardi Gras, where a tiny plastic baby is baked into the dough of the King Cake. Whoever gets the baby is responsible for bringing the King Cake next year (in addition to religious relevance). Instead of a plastic baby, I tucked three chocolate chips into a piece of dough as I formed the ball, submitting an invocation of a good new year.

Later at Auntie Margaret’s house, Auntie Linda whirled around the kitchen getting the food together while Auntie Margaret, Auntie Barbara, Sister and Sean watched the Warrior’s basketball game. I could hear Auntie Barbara hollering, “Get the ball! Get the ball! That motherf—-!” Sean and I decided to stay, eating at a safe distance in a different room. 

Rise, bake, cool, taste.

Sister commented, “oh my gosh, look how the layers of the roll just pull apart!” 

Kissingcrust.

And she got the fortuitous chips.

Milk Line Rolls - Part 7

Handwritten quote in red and brown that reads, “Hope is not the conviction that something will turn out well. It is the certainty that something is worth doing no matter how it turns out.” - Václav Havel, writing and photo by Andrea Sexton Dumas

I read somewhere that you can sub pineapple juice for the milk and the rolls will taste like King’s Hawaiian Bread. It would be much easier to just buy the King’s Hawaiian Bread, but there’s something in the process of making rolls that fills me. The kneading, the rising and waiting. It’s alchemical for both the dough and me; I need to knead.

It turns out that I don’t have pineapple juice or milk, so I make them with water for the first time. While kneading, I can tell the dough doesn’t feel right, but I’m not sure what’s wrong. I knead for 20 minutes then let them rise. 

Or not.  After an hour, the dough hadn’t moved. The yeast was dead.  

Wondering what happened, I started over. There was that wise inner voice in my ear, “You can do your absolutely best, but sometimes things just don’t work out the way you planned.”  

Nearly two years into the pandemic, this resonated deeply. I began to cry. Sometimes things just don’t work out. Yeast dies. Loved ones die. Plans don’t work out, despite your deepest desires or best intentions. 

Oh, the timing. 

Knead, rise, punch it down, form, rise.

“Hope is not the conviction that something will turn out well,” Václav Havel tells us. “It is the certainty that something is worth doing no matter how it turns out.”

The second batch made with water instead of milk turned out really well. They’ve even got that soft piece of dough where two rolls meet. That’s the texture I had been trying to recreate.

Later, I dreamt that I was at Auntie Ophelia’s house; the front of her house was decorated with gospel music cassette tapes. The doorbell rang and she asked me to answer it; it was a client dropping off a bag of cassette tapes because, in my dream, my aunt is digitizing cassette tapes. The client hands me his bag or tapes and order form, then he passes me a few dollars and says he’d also like to buy some yeast.

I hope in rolls.

Milk Line Rolls - Part 6

Upclose perfect highlighting the texture and salt granules, photo by Andrea Sexton Dumas

Don’t mind me, I’m just making rolls again.

I’m preparing many other dishes for Autumn Harvest Dinner, but the only one I truly care about is the rolls. The dough didn’t feel right enough after kneading for 15 minutes, so I went another five. It felt right: the dough as well as my obsession. 

I’ve talked to everyone about these rolls. One friend said that I sound just like her husband, whose roll recipe will be shared in her upcoming cookbook. Another friend and I talked about vegan versions, so I can make her a batch when we see each other. Sister’s hair dresser’s sister-in-law sent over her roll recipe just in case I needed it.  

It takes a village…

Our 11 year old nephew Hugo, Nayeli’s older brother, slept overnight with us and helped me in the kitchen (in between him playing video games on his phone). Every few minutes I’d call out to him, “Hey, can you set a timer for five minutes? Can you help me measure the flour?” (He’s impressed by the softness of the flour.) “Do you mind washing this pan for me while I knead the dough?  Will you form a ball with me?” (He was not as impressed with the dough texture.)

Rise, punch it down, form, rise (yes, only twice), bake, cool, taste.

He took his first bite and his eyes lit up. That look on his face was all I needed, though I wished Nayeli was here to taste them, too. They were best friends, he and his sister, and she died just over a year ago. I’m sure he wishes she were here with him, too.

Hugo must have eaten 15 rolls that day.  He also didn’t care about anything else I cooked.

Milk Line Rolls - Part 5

Perfectly brown rolls in a glass pan on a rack, photo by Andrea Sexton Dumas

I got this.  

Once again I made the dough at night. No lamination. I kneaded for 15 minutes and planned to rise three times, just like Gran.  

Knead, rise, refrigerate.

Later, I dreamt that I was with a woman I did not recognize on a patio. She identified herself as one of Gran’s descendants and said, “You’re doing it all wrong!” She then showed me a written version of the recipe.

Yes, for real!  In my dream I SAW the recipe!

The patio began to crowd as people came in to taste the rolls. And there she was, my Grandmother Alberta. She gave me a huge hug and we embraced for a really long time. I could feel her body against mine; she was short and rotund, sturdy and strong just like she was when she was living. We held hands as people began to eat the rolls and Grandmother said to me, “I like the weight you’ve gained. I don’t like it when I can see your collarbone.”  

I woke up before hearing what they thought of the rolls, and of course I couldn’t remember the recipe. But I was in stitches…she doesn’t like to see my collarbone?!  

Punch it down, rise, punch it down, form, rise, bake, cool, taste. Glass pan, covered with a towel not saran, buttered before and after baking. 415 degrees Fahrenheit, but 435 in my oven.  

They. Were. Perfect.

Milk Line Rolls - Part 4

A peek at proofing dough in a yellow bowl, photo by Andrea Sexton Dumas

As I was testing various rising times and techniques (upstairs in the bedroom with the portable heater on, near the window but not too close, covered with a towel, windows closed), I let a half batch rise in the refrigerator overnight. 

Knead, rise, punch it down, form, refrigerate.

The next morning I took the remaining dough to my cousin Kashina’s house in a glass pan instead of metal pan like I had been using. Kashina’s grandfather, my Uncle Ernest, and her father, my Uncle Robert, died two months apart; Robert was my first cousin and was buried on my birthday. Kashina and I didn’t grow up together and only became close towards the end of her father’s and grandfather’s lives. Our relationship has grown into a sisterhood in the recent years.

Rise, bake, cool, taste.

Ah HA! Metal conducts heat more quickly than glass, which is why the rolls were browning so quickly. And this batch I formed into little balls instead of rolled up little cigars. But I still wanted to be able to pull the layers apart like I did as a kid.

Kashina’s kids loved them. Her six year old daughter Bella asked, “can you make them again Auntie Andrea?”

Later, Sister sends me a video message:  “You remember Ms. Carla, Ms. Elaine’s daughter?  Ms. Elaine is the neighbor who knit that headwrap for my mom; she’s a Louisiana girl. Ms. Carla is a well-seasoned chef and suggested you look into the Danish roll, which is laminated and creates a flakey, layered pastry.”

Checkmate. I must have heard Ms. Carla through the ether. After some research it appeared that the Danish roll lamination is a butter and flour mixture, which was definitely not what Gran did, but this tidbit confirmed my inclination to do a lamination-like process. 

During the week I had another dream about my childhood community, but the details were less clear. I was at my Auntie Ophelia’s house and somehow my current office was in the mix, too. My day job is in digitization: we help families and organizations archive their photos, film, audio cassettes, slides, reel-to-reels and so on. It was interesting that my aunt showed up at my job in this dream because I started this work many years after her death.

Then a funeral card for one of my Grandmother’s friends found its way out of a stack of papers. It was for Mary Vierra, one of the few women at our church who was older than my Grandmother.  The other woman was Ms. Rita Surko, who lived with us for a while and eventually sold her house to Aunt Ophelia. In fact, most of the antique furniture I inherited from my Grandmother and aunt was Ms. Surko’s. She used to sit in the very first pew at St. Patrick’s singing at the top of her lungs in soprano, off key. It was wonderful.

The laminated rolls, however, were not.  

They were big and, as Prue and Paul would say on the Great British Baking Show, stodgy. Sean, The Aunties and Sister consoled me:

“But the flavor is there.”

“Mm hmm, we ate them all.”

“Well, now we know not to laminate them.”

“You know what we were just singing? Ms. Inola Jones’ song from church. Do you remember it?”

Sister starts them off and The Aunties join in, “And just as sure as the sun will riiiiiiiise…”

It took me a minute to recall the words, but I got there. And there we were, singing together over video recordings of each other. I could feel Ms. Jones’ presence in that moment; singing her song took me right back to hearing her sing it live.  She was also a soprano, on key, and made the best zucchini bread I’ve ever had. She made loaves by the dozens during autumn and winter, and even shared her recipe with me. 

When we keep up the traditions that make us feel good - the traditions of the people who make us feel cared for – we honor our relationship with our person, our people and oftentimes our lineages, milk or blood. Some folks call this after death care: continuing to relate with your loved ones even after death. Light a candle. Say their name. Pour out a little somethin’ from your cup. Make their recipes.  

I’m beginning to find my role in the family and community: I archive and restore memories, lineage, ancestral wisdom and recipes.