Holding On

How y'all doin'?

:: deep sigh ::

A few days ago I was standing in the kitchen eating dinner when I noticed I was holding a lot of tension in my body. My legs were constricted and my jaw was tight, even as I chewed. Without thinking about it, I started bouncing my legs - like how you do when you're holding a baby. Quickly I felt more grounded and safe and thought, "I'm in my kitchen right now and I'm okay."

Random bouncing, taking naps, drumming my new adufu drum (that I found at the local consignment toy store), singing my meditation bowl, walking with a friend, sleeping with my stuffed octopus - these are just some of the things I find myself doing more and more. Giving the rhythm of my body some space. To do what it needs. To dance. To digest. To recenter. To root. 

When I'm rooted, I can listen for the answer to the question, "what is the medicine for this moment?" 

Of the many medicines this time calls for, one that keeps returning to my heart is to remain human. AI can't replicate my grief-full heart, nor my incredibly sacred rage. I care now more than ever, I rage scream in the car more frequently than ever, and have crying spells deeper and longer than ever before. Because I am human, I am humble and I am whole. 

In We Will Rest, Trisha Hersey prescribes:

Hold on

Hold on to your faith

Hold on to your tenderness

Hold on to your hopes

Hold on to rest

Hold on 

Hold on

Hold on

Hold on to this book

Hold on to your dancing

Hold on to your body

Hold on to your neighbor

Hold on to the heaven inside

While Candle Hour Grief Vigil is on temporary hiatus, I once again invite you to create your own ritual: delineate sacred space by lighting a candle, ringing a bell or even clapping. Here, give the rhythm of your body some space. Whether you're shouldering personal or collective anger or deep-seeded fear - what does your body need? Take that space and time for your body. You can include music and poetry if you like. When the ritual feels complete, give thanks to the space and close the space (blowing out the candle, ringing the bell, clapping, etc). 

It may seem small, to light a candle and dance for a while, then blow out said candle and go back to scrolling, but "rituals are a church without walls, the anecdote to our denial" writes Prentis Hemphill in What it Takes to Heal. You're taking an earnest moment to contain the moment of, "Yes. This. Is. Real."  

Hold on to your humanity.

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.