This morning I found myself up early to take the Pan de Muerto, or “Bread of the Dead,” dough out of its nest in the refrigerator to roll into balls and bake. Baking has always been a form of meditation or prayer for me. So often, when I am baking something, I’m also remembering the person who taught me that recipe, a meal we shared, or the particularites of a friend or family member’s palate.
My grandmother, “Gran” as I called her, packed heat (yes, carried a gun), swore like a sailor, could quote whole passages of Shakespeare, dressed with impeccable tailored panache, was a Buddhist in the 1940’s, and helped me bake my very first batch of cookies, sugar cookies which we flavored vanilla, anise, and lemon and then baked and decorated together. While pregnancy and caring for two small children has taken away a lot of brain cells, the memory of that day, that kitchen, those smells, and her instruction is clear as a bell. And, my friends, from that day on I was hooked on cooking things. Gran’s mother, my great-grandmother Eva, ran a successful bakery back in the time when “good” Southern women of means stayed at home. Along with all the questionable character traits, the emotional snafus, and the fierce independence, it is a pleasure to have inherited a love for baking from my maternal line.
The recipe I used for my pan was taken from (the local food goddess) Barbara Kingsolver’s inspirational book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. One of the best things about the Mexican “Day of the Dead” is that it allows and even demands a festive attitude, not being completely mired in all of the sadness that usually surrounds a loved one’s death and subsequent absence. For this day, the Dead walk among us and are part of our daily bread. Celebrate, gather your ingredients, and contemplate your ancestors and all of those who’ve gone before you.
