Growing up, my cousins all lived close to our grandmother. They didn’t need to put her rolls in their freezers, because they could have them fresh each week at Weekend Dinner. They didn’t need a VHS of her to feel close, to get confirmation that some part of themselves came from her, that they had roots.

I got my love of baking from my Grandmommy. That was my connection, my proof that we were family, that she was mine. And so, with her VHS, I learned to bake bread.

Stirring and sifting and kneading. Patience and commitment and strength.

The first time, I was shocked my rolls turned out like little spiky stegosauruses, not the yeasty pillows she effortlessly made. The flavor was right, but the texture was all wrong.

I hadn’t measured incorrectly. In fact, her measurements were inexact, endlessly forgiving:

“2–8T butter”

“2–8T sugar”

“Keep adding unbleached flour until it’s right.”

I just needed practice kneading. So I fired up the VCR, and I practiced.

Each time, the rolls got smoother and rounder, as I got to know the video by heart. My favorite moment is when her voice gets higher, how you can hear her West Virginia roots when she flours her hands and scoops the dough onto the counter to knead: “You don’t want to miss a crumb of this good stuff.”

She was right. Every crumb felt vital. They were so delicious, and they were all I had to connect us.

By the time of my grandmother’s funeral, I was a confident 16-year-old baker. I led my younger cousin through the steps. Together, we mourned our grandmother actively through kneading. As the dough rose, we watched old home movies of her on a projector. Then we tasted; we shared. We mmmed, and we laughed.

My cousin had known our grandmother intimately; they were parts of each other’s day-to-day lives in a way I never had with any of my grandparents. But I knew Grandmommy through bread. This was how I mourned. And how I found that nothing truly dies. We live on through each other.

At age 17, I went vegan, so the rolls did as well. Simple substitutions: soy milk instead of milk, vegan butter instead of cow’s butter. I was overjoyed that the rolls tasted the same. They were still Grandmommy rolls.

I haven’t watched her bake in years. I don’t have a VCR anymore — who does? She’s gone, along with all my grandparents.

I miss my Grandmommy. I want to tell her how strong she was, to raise 5 kids, who all grew up with clear moral compasses and big appetites.

I want my own daughter to know her roots. I might need to find a new VCR.

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