Milk Line Rolls - Part 3

Rolls in cigar shape, overcooked and underproofed, photo by Andrea Sexton Dumas

The following Friday night, research and development continued.

“Sooooo, are we roll-testing this weekend?”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything, but I was wondering.”

“Sister, what’s up?”

Saturday morning after I walked Churro, I made a double batch and kneaded the dough for 15 minutes, just like the folks online.  Halfway through, I could feel my muscles working and my crevices beginning to sweat. I started to hear the Spirit of my Ancestors in my ear as I kneaded:

This is what we’re talking about. When you set out an offering to us, we want your sweat, your effort, your sacrifice. It's easy to take what you’ve made for yourself and set some on a plate for us, and call that an offering. But THIS! THIS is soul food. This is something you make with love and care and take your time with. When you want to make an offering to us, make us rolls.  

I understood the message fully. This is what grandmothers do. Or perhaps more accurately, this is what the milk line does. They take their time and take good care. No rushing. Full presence of attention with the intention to nourish and shape, just how I’m shaping these rolls. Just like the way all those Black women at church looked at me.  

Knead, rise, punch it down, form, rise, bake, cool, taste.

The next batch was delicious and much fluffier. Sister came over with Aunt Barbara, and took some back to share with the other Aunties. The feedback was minimal this time.  

“They’re still darker than what Gran made.”

“She didn’t roll them. That’s your thing and that’s okay, but hers were NOT rolled.”

“They’re good though!”

Why do I remember being able to pull the layers apart? How do we achieve that texture? I had been rolling out a piece of dough into a long rectangle with a rolling pin, dotting each piece with butter, then rolling it up like a cigar. But that wasn’t it. A new plan began to form in my mind: laminating the layers with butter.  

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.

Milk Line Rolls - Part 1

Recipe development notes, photo by Andrea Sexton Dumas

In early November 2021, as I planned the Autumn Harvest Dinner we hosted for my in-laws, I remembered Gran’s rolls.  

Gran is my Aunt Margaret’s mother-in-law, Uncle Ed’s mom. She didn’t have to be my grandmother to call her Gran; that’s what everyone called her, at least everyone young enough to be her grandchild. There’s a particular level of deference in our culture and speaking an elder’s title is one of those considerations. I hadn’t spent much time with Gran, but I remember the gap in her teeth, her high pitched voice and her rolls.  If she was coming to one of our family gatherings, my own Grandmother would request rolls and nothing else.  They say she was excellent in the kitchen, but I’d only had her rolls.  Gran made them small, and they were easy to eat.  They were buttery and light and there was never enough of them.  

I haven’t eaten them in at least 20 years, but they were so memorable that every so often my sister and I would muse, “do you think anyone has the recipe?” 

“Maybe Auntie so-and-so.”  

I began searching the internet based only on my memory of what Gran’s rolls looked like.  I made a chart of ingredients and measurements.  

By Tuesday night, I was in regular contact with my Sister, Danielle, and The Aunties: my dad’s sister Aunt Margaret and two of her daughters, Linda and Barbara - phone, text, apps - trying to reconstruct Gran’s recipe. Linda and Barbara are technically my first cousins, but again, deference. Auntie Barbara is Danielle’s mom, which makes Danielle my second cousin. Sometimes bloodlines are just a suggestion; she’s my sister.

“No, no, there wasn’t any brown sugar.”

“I don’t think she used butter flavored shortening; I think it was just butter.”

“Was it water or milk?”

“Was there any sugar at all?”

“Your auntie said she let them rise three times, and then cut them out with a mason jar lid.”

“I sent you a picture from a website.  They kinda looked like that.”

“No, definitely no honey.”

“She did a butter wash before baking them, not an egg wash.”

“What about after?”

“She’d keep the oven on while she made them, and would rise them on top of the stove.”

“Gold Medal flour, not bread flour.”

“You know her death anniversary is later this month.”

I don’t remember when Gran died; it must have been when I was away at college or maybe out of state working.  Maybe I was just too self-involved at the time.  Uncle Ed’s birthday would be next week, the same day Uncle Ernest died nearly ten years ago now.  Uncle Ed died two years ago, but in March. In our family we save obituaries religiously; I actually inherited a greeting card organizer from my dad’s other sister Auntie Ophelia, where she started recording everyone's birthdays and death days. She bought it just before she died so it's incomplete. I added Gran’s name to the November anniversaries.

After picking apart internet recipes from other people’s southern grandmas, we had a skeleton of a recipe. We were all juiced, but perhaps no one more than me.