Milk Line Rolls - Part 2
It must have been recipe-gathering-night that I had a dream where I was back in my childhood church, St. Patrick’s Catholic Church in West Oakland. It had been moved from the street it was on to a side street, and the rectory where the priests lived had burned down. In my dream, I was saying hello, hugging and kissing all these women, some of whom have died in the years since. Ms. Bayless, Ms. Inola Jones and her daughter, my fellow Capricorn and name twin Andrea Jones, Ms. Lavalis, Ms. Emma Brown, The Holloways, Ms. Linda Leroy, Ms. Byzella Goods, Ms. Pat and her mom Ms. Bernadette Beals, my Godmother “Momma” Phaedra Jackson. I felt so welcomed by the women of my childhood.
A couple days later, Auntie Linda sent a picture recipe from her mom’s 1960s cookbook, Grandma’s Rolls by Mrs. C. H. Mayo in Lake Charles, Louisiana. Gran was also from Louisiana, just like my father’s family, including Grandmother Alberta and my Grandfather Papa D. This recipe seemed promising. But here’s the thing about the way grandmas share recipes: they act like you already know what to do.
Add eggs and beat. How much do I beat these eggs?
Knead dough gently. For how long?
Bake. In what type of pan, glass or metal…and what size?
That Friday night around 10:30pm, I was lying in bed wondering what texture the rolls would be and if I could get them as light as Gran’s. My husband Sean was asleep and our dog Churro was snuggled up with him. Savannah the 15 year old muted calico kitty stayed next to my pillow as I climbed out of bed and went downstairs to make the dough. Banana the orange tabby came with me so he could go outside into the small yard off the kitchen.
By 11pm, I was kneading the dough on a beautiful butcher block made by Sean’s friend Anthony’s father who had just died a few days prior. Our own family has a lot of death anniversaries this time of year as the weather turns cool; my dad, Uncle Charles, Aunt Ophelia (whose son Geno died in the same year two months before her), my grandmother’s sister Aunt Frances, my Godmother Aunt Maxine who died just a couple months ago, our niece Nayeli, as well as her grandmothers Celena and Gloria. I could feel the emotion swelling in me as I kneaded. It was as if the eternal grandmothers were taking over my hands and my body. How many generations of bread kneaders came before me? How much sustenance has been parsed out over the generations? How many death anniversaries could possibly be on one single day? I began to weep.
“We’re all here. We’re kneading with you. We’re eating with you. We are you.”
After kneading for about five minutes, I gathered myself and gathered the dough, put it in a greased bowl, covered it with plastic and put it in the refrigerator to slowly rise overnight. I’d make another batch in the morning to compare. Grabbing my phone, I wanted to share this moment with someone, so I sent a video to my friend Karen. Leaning my backside on the countertop with the window behind me, I started giggling, as if I was intoxicated, telling her about the presence of grandmother energy. Tears streamed down my face as I said, “I feel all them with me here right now.” The light outside behind me popped on exactly as I said those words out loud. Now, I know that my cat Banana turned on the sensor light (probably hunting a salamander), but the timing left me speechless. My laughter and tears could not be contained; I was just pure emotion. I went to bed satiated.
Over the weekend Karen had responded to my video: “This sounds like your milk line.”
They say that we have three lines of ancestry: our bloodlines, our milk lines and our story lines. As I understand it, bloodline is obvious: the people who you descend from biologically. Storyline is less obvious: the myths, narratives and legends that form us. And our milk line are those who feed us, nurture us, care for us.
Knead, rise, punch it down, form, rise, bake, cool, taste.
That batch and the second one on Saturday morning were aiight. Sister came over to play dominos, and took rolls to the Aunties. They weren’t bad, but they definitely weren’t anywhere close Gran’s.
“She didn’t roll them up like this.”
“One of mine was undercooked.”
“Mine are overbaked.”
“It's not bad, but they should be fluffier.”
“Well, when you gon’ try again?”
I was spent.
Sunday morning, I had a Zoom with some friends, one of whom’s partner is an avid baker. “Do you want me to ask how to make them fluffier?” they asked. HELL YEAH!
“Less flour, beat the egg well, knead it longer.” That made sense. During the week I watched YouTube videos on fluffy rolls and bread. These folks are kneading their dough for 15 minutes. Well damn.