Pan de Muerto

By Violet Jones

The sticky dough dripped off my fingers as I blew a stray strand of hair out of my eyes.

This is a lot tougher than she made it look, I thought. I eyed the oozing blob of dough on the countertop with suspicion. There was still half the butter to go into this dough and I was already losing the battle with the cloying mess. My eyes flicked to her photo on the ofrenda. It was shiny and new and perched at the front of the table, conspicuously near an empty plate; a plate meant for this mess in front of me. I sighed.

“It would be a lot easier, Mija, if you stopped letting half the dough drip to the floor while you daydream.” I jumped. Leaning against the counter was an ephemeral copy of the woman in the photo. I gaped, globs of dough plopping to the countertop.

“What?” she said, eyeing my hands disapprovingly.

“Wh… Wh… Why? I mean, how are you here Mama?”

“Am I not allowed to come visit my daughter on Día de los Muertos?” she quipped in mock awe. “Now quick, or the pan de muerto will be pancakes of the dead instead of bread for them.”

I slapped my hands half-heartedly back into the dough and tried feebly to add more butter.

She crossed her arms and shook her head. “This is why I never let you touch this bread.”

“I was always terrified to make it,” I said as I fought the urge to add more flour. “But I thought I should make it like you did every year since it’s abeulita’s favorite. I never dreamed you’d be watching me struggle to make it once you were gone, no offense.”

“Surprise!” she sang, raising her hands.

“At least I got the tamales right,” I grumbled as I kept adding butter.

She cocked an eyebrow at me. “At least us dead folk won’t starve now, I guess. Even if we’re likely to die a second time choking on your salsa roja.”

“Hey,” I cried, wagging a doughy finger at her. “You always said you liked my salsa roja.”

She winked at me. “I did. But it always made me choke. Like turning into a fire-breathing dragon every time I ate it.” She pursed her lips, puffed out her cheeks, and blew.

Then we both laughed. We laughed and laughed until we were both choking and snorting.

“It is a bit like that,” I admitted as I started in again in earnest on the bread. I stretched and pulled, pushed and folded, shaped and molded until all of a sudden, there it was. A smooth, round ball of dough, neatly crisscrossed with bone-shaped dough sections and ready to go in the oven.

“Trust the process. It’s what you always told me,” I said. I turned to the ghost of my mother as I closed the oven door and set the timer.

She nodded, a knowing look in her eyes as she replied gently, “Trust the process, Mija.”

I dropped my head, tears suddenly running down my cheeks. “But this process is so hard, Mama. I don’t know if I can trust that it will all turn out all right.” My shoulders began to shake, and I could feel a hint of warmth as her ghostly form wrapped its arms around me.

“But it will be, Mija, trust me.”

I sobbed while the flickering candles from the ofrenda melted low, and the orange of the flowers faded to muted rust in the low light.

The timer dinged, and I wiped my eyes with the back of my hands. I pulled out the golden dome of sweet, orange-scented bread from the oven and set it on the counter. I quickly brushed it with butter and sprinkled it with sugar. The whole kitchen smelled like a thousand memories. I slid the bread from the baking tray onto Mama’s favorite plate and gently placed it next to her photo.

“Here you are Mama. Abeulita’s favorite, and, I think, yours, too.”

Her translucent hand reached for the loaf, and she broke away a steaming piece of equally transparent bread. She held it to her nose, breathing in deep as a smile spread across her face. Taking a bite, she chewed slowly, obviously relishing every second. She turned to me and said, “It’s delicioso, Mija.” A twinkle came into her eyes.

“Wh-What?” I asked.

“It’s almost as good as your tamales and salsa roja,” she replied, as a smile tugged at her lips. “Just with a little less fire breathing.” Then we both laughed until the candles went out.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Violet Jones delights in culinary adventures, literature from a kaleidoscope of genres, new writing challenges, a good game of tennis, and a proper Sunday nap in her hammock. She’s been imagining and writing stories since she could talk and she loves pulling people into her world with deftly woven words, so that they too can experience her wonder.