This piece originally appeared in SAVEUR’s Fall/Winter 2025 issue. See more stories from Issue 205.
My grandmother, Tita Susana, used to tell me that one day I would write a book about her family from Pátzcuaro, a city in the western Mexican state of Michoacán. I never took her seriously, but always hoped that one day we could travel there together. Sadly, she passed away in 2019, but her prophecy came true: Last year, I visited Pátzcuaro for the first time to research our family history for my book, Mexico’s Day of the Dead.
While customs vary across Mexico, there are certain Día de Muertos traditions that everyone is familiar with. One is the use of marigolds, or cempasúchiles, the ceremonial flowers that are said to guide the souls of loved ones home with their strong aroma and bright color. Another is pan de muerto, or bread of the dead, which can only be found in bakeries this time of year. Typically flavored with anise, orange zest, and orange blossom water, the round loaves are traditionally adorned with pieces of dough in the shape of crossbones and are often dusted with sugar.
There are many versions, but Michoacán is home to one of my favorites: pan de ánimas, or bread of souls. The lightly-sweetened dough is molded into a human shape, often with arms crossed, like a mummy in a coffin. Before the invention of photography, these edible effigies were placed on altars as representations of the deceased. Often inscribed with names, a pan de ánimas with a flared and rounded bottom signified a woman, while one with two legs was meant to symbolize a man.
In Mexico, the best bakers are usually hidden behind unmarked doors and will send their breads to nearby panaderías to sell. On Paseo Street in Pátzcuaro, at one such bakery, I watch 93-year-old Ramón García Calle use his peel to move loaves of pan de ánimas in and out of the oven with the same strength as family members half his age. He appears unbothered by the heat, and when I applaud his tirelessness, he tells me, “The years do not pass by in vain.” Expressing my admiration, I ask if he thinks he will make it to 100, to which he reassuringly replies, “Of course, it’s only seven more years.” Watching García work, I realize that his dedication to baking the breads is not only a full-time job but a commitment to preserving Mexican traditions.
In Cuanajo, a short drive from Pátzcuaro, at the Téllez family home, two young children, Mayte and Luis Enrique, excitedly lead me to the back. Their father, Hugo César, and mother, Sandra, are busy baking their own pan de ánimas. “We help each other as a family,” Hugo César tells me. “It’s a privilege because people trust us to make the bread to adorn their altars.”
Every year from October 31 to November 2, the Téllez family uses their homemade brick oven to make hundreds of loaves for local residents and bakeries. I express to them that this is my first Día de Muertos in my ancestral home and ask if they might make one in memory of my grandmother. They tell me they would be honored. I watch as Sandra carefully arranges Tita Susana’s name onto the bread and reflect on how fortunate I am to have been born into a family that taught me to value our Mexican customs, no matter how many generations removed.
Five-year-old Mayte asks if I would like to see their altar, sharing how excited she is that her family members would return to visit that evening. I understood the child’s eagerness. Losing Tita Susana wasn’t just the end of our corporeal relationship; it was also one fewer connection to my Mexican heritage. But thanks to the farmers and bakers who uphold these traditions that my grandmother loved as a child, I was heartened that we would be together again in spirit, if just for one night.
Recipe
Pan de Ánimas (Bread of Souls)
Photos excerpted with permission from Mexico’s Day of the Dead: A Celebration of Life Through Stories and Photos by Luisa Navarro with Christine Chitnis, © 2025. Published by Hardie Grant.
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