Mexico Cooks!

Deliciosa Sopa de Habas en Tiempo de Frío :: Delicious Fava Bean Soup for Chilly Weather

Fresh fava beans in the pod, at the Mercado de Jamaica, Mexico City, October 29, 2018.  You can see how big and bulky these pods are; the beans inside are each about one inch long and half an inch wide.  To use the favas, first you take them out of the pods and then you have to peel a tough skin from each individual bean.  These cost fourteen pesos a kilo--about 75 cents US for 2.2 pounds.    

It seems like just a few weeks ago that Mexico Cooks! was publishing cold-weather recipes, but it's been a year or more!  Now's a good time to get a jump on something quick, delicious, and home-made for those who gather around your table for a meal.  Mexican fava bean soup is not only wonderfully comforting on a chilly evening, it's also extremely economical and absolutely delicious--and suits the vegan or vegetarian members of your crowd, too.  The soup freezes well, if the following recipe makes too much for your group.

Fava beans (scientific name Vicia faba L.), while not native to Mexico, are the cousins of Mexico's native beans and are an honored part of the family.  It's rare to know Mexicans who don't have a favorite aunt's recipe for a special dish of them, or one treasured by a neighbor's late wife and passed down by word of mouth to everyone in the family.  Fava beans, domesticated in ancient Egypt, Greece, and Rome, are ubiquitous throughout the world, including Mexico.  Fourteen-thousand-year-old seeds, wild predecessors to domesticated fava beans, were found just a few years ago in the area of Mount Carmel, Israel.


Freshly peeled green fava beans.  Fresh favas are used somewhat less than dried, but both are popular in Mexico.  Photo courtesy Alibaba.


Here's a Mexican brand of dried fava beans--you can see on the label that the fava is called haba, in Spanish; this bag contains 500 grams, just a bit more than a pound.  Dried peeled habas (favas) are what you want for the soup recipe in today's Mexico Cooks! article.  You're sure to find a similar brand on your grocer's shelves.  You might even find them in bulk at your market.
  
What to make with dried habas?  Middle-eastern hummus, of course, although we usually think of the creamy, olive oil smooth dip as made with garbanzo beans.  Hummus made with cooked habas is equally delicious.  Chilled salads, golden-fried patties, and dishes composed of pork, lamb, or chicken in sauces with habas are on tables all over Mexico.  But more than any other dish, we here in Mexico use habas for soups.


Other than the dried habas, ingredients for the soup are few and simple.  Here, from nine o'clock clockwise: fresh garlic, fresh celery, fresh carrots, Roma tomatoes, a wedge of white onion (hiding at the back, at three o'clock), and one of those two fresh serrano chiles.  In addition, I added a bay leaf, just a pinch of cumin, and salt to taste.  Nothing complicated, nothing fancy--and the results are fantastic.  Let's get started!

Sopa de Habas
(Fava Bean Soup)
Serves 4-6

Half kilo (or one pound) dry fava beans
3 finely chopped carrots
2-3 finely chopped Roma tomatoes
2 Tbsp white onion, finely chopped
2 sticks of celery, finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, peeled and minced
1 chile serrano, minced (optional, but really good)
8 Cups chicken or vegetable broth, home-made if possible
2-3 Tbsp lard or vegetable oil
1 bay leaf
Pinch of cumin
Salt to taste
Sprigs of fresh cilantro (optional)

Bring 6-8 cups of water to a boil in a large heavy pot. When the water comes to a boil, add the dry fava beans. Cover with the lid of the pot slightly ajar and allow the beans to simmer for about 2 hours, until they are very well softened. 

Once the beans are soft, drain off the water using a colander. Reserve the beans.


Everything is in the pot, cooking to the proper tenderness and thickness.  See the bay leaf in the center?

In the bean-cooking pot, put the lard or vegetable oil and bring to a shimmer. Add the minced garlic, chile serrano, and onion and stir over medium fire until they are transparent. Add the celery, tomatoes, and carrots and stir over a medium fire until the celery is slightly transparent and the tomatoes begin to give up their juice. Add the fava beans and sauté for another 5 minutes, making sure the beans are well-mixed into the rest of the vegetables.

Add the chicken or vegetable broth, the bay leaf, and the cumin, cover with the pot lid ajar, and allow to simmer over a medium fire for about half an hour. Add salt to taste and continue to cook until it is just the thickness you want.

I needed to mash the beans (in the liquid) until the soup was nearly smooth and was quite thick.  Next time I make this soup, I will probably use an immersion blender to get it smoother, although I did like the texture.  

Remove the bay leaf and serve hot.  Fresh tortillas or American-style cornbread are excellent accompaniments. 

Provecho!


When I served the soup, I put a few sprigs of cilantro on the side of the plate for whoever wanted it to stir into the soup.

Looking for a tailored-to-your-interests specialized tour in Mexico? Click here: Tours.

 

Guadalajara's Panteón de Belén (Bethlehem Cemetery) :: Are You Brave Enough to Brave the Tour?

Originally published in late October 2007, this article about Guadalajara's Panteón de Belén lead up to several articles about Mexico's Día de los Muertos--Day of the Dead.  All these years later, Mexico Cooks! will follow that same path as we relive Mexico's early November traditions.

The center pathway at the Panteón de Belén (Bethlehem Cemetery) leads to this rotunda, the original Rotunda of Illustrious Men of Guadalajara. Patterned after an Egyptian pyramid, it contains crypts and a chapel.

When I was a child, a Sunday drive with my family often included a visit to one of the finest old cemeteries of the southern United States. My younger sister and I would wander among the elaborate limestone mausoleums, exclaiming at the dates that seemed so long ago, "Look, Mommy, this man died in 1822. Do you remember back that far?" My mother, born 100 years after that date, simply rolled her eyes and suggested that we hurry over to the cemetery pond to feed the ducks and swans from our bags of stale bread.

I still like to visit cemeteries. There's peace to be found among the dead, an acceptance of life as it is and death as it comes. The Day of the Dead in Mexico celebrates that notion: life is to be lived today, death is inevitable. Enjoy the one, honor the other. In Guadalajara, there is a cemetery where the long-dead are honored year round. You'll find plenty of entertainment in its legends and lore.

A few weeks ago, my friend Lourdes called just as I was leaving for the Panteón de Belén (Bethlehem Cemetery), Guadalajara's most famous burial ground. I thought she'd be squeamish when I asked her to meet me there, but no. She's a Guadalajara native, but she'd never been to the cemetery and she was quite excited at the prospect. She was beaming when we met at the ancient stone entrance. I paid our entry fee ($5 pesos per person, plus an extra $10 pesos if you plan to take pictures) and we started out along the center pathway through moldering gravestones and decrepit 19th Century mausoleums.

The construction of Panteón de Belén began in 1843 under the direction of architect Manuel Gómez Ibarra, who also built the towers of the Metropolitan Cathedral in Guadalajara. The cemetery had been in the planning stages since 1786, shortly after Guadalajara had passed through what has come to be called 'the year of hunger'. A tremendous plague gripped the city, killing thousands of its residents and filling the existing cemeteries. There was an urgent need for a new campo santo (burial ground).

The colonnade of crypts at the front entrance of the Panteón de Belén.

City authorities chose the orchards of the civil hospital to build the new cemetery. Flat and extensive, the grounds were well-suited to this use. The first occupant of the cemetery, buried there in 1844 before the buildings were completed, was Isidoro Gómez Tortolero, pastor of the town of Tala, Jalisco.

Today, much of the cemetery has been closed and the remaining land used for other purposes. What we see now is only a fraction of what once existed. The lands that were used as the common graves of the poor are now under a huge building.

The portion of the cemetery where we walked (and where we found our admirable guide) is crumbling with age. Huge branching trees arch over the graves, the mausoleums, and the pathways. Mottled shade alternates with brilliant sunshine, creating the sense that we walked between the past and the present. Dates on the crypts carried us back in time, forcing our thoughts down paths that long-dead feet trod before us.

Legend and history had us in their grip. One minute Lourdes said, "I'm not the sort that is afraid in a place like this," and the next minute she showed me her arm, with gooseflesh and peach fuzz standing up in a chilly shiver. We stood silent, wondering which graves were the stuff of ghostly tales and which held the barely-remembered.

The inscription on Little Nacho's tomb reads, "Ignacio Torres Altamirano, May 26, 1882".

Suddenly we heard a high-pitched young voice saying, "And over here is Little Nacho, the one who was afraid of the dark." Our ears perked up. We looked for the source of the voice and saw a young girl, no more than nine or ten years old, leading a group of enthralled visitors around the cemetery. We begged permission to join them.

"See the child's stone coffin, built on top of the grave?" Her girlish voice turned very serious. "That's Little Nacho, who died exactly on his first birthday. From the time he was born, he was terrified of the dark and couldn't bear to be in a closed room. He had to sleep in a room filled with candles, a room where all the windows were open. The doctors were amazed by his fear, and nothing his parents could do would cure it. They even took him to curanderos (faith healers) to see if he was bewitched, but to no avail.

"When Little Nacho died, his parents buried him here in this grave, with a heavy gravestone above him. Everyone went home from the funeral and night fell. When the cemetery watchman made his rounds just at dawn, he jumped back in horror when he saw that Little Nacho's tiny coffin was lying on top of the gravestone. His report to the cemetery authorities was that someone had dug up the baby's coffin during the night, a desecration of the worst sort."

Very stylish in her pink skirt, Jessica Torres (at the far right), age ten, skillfully guided our group through the cemetery. Dramatic and articulate, she kept us all in shivers.

Our little group was riveted by what our young guide was saying. She continued, "That same day they buried his coffin again, but every morning for the next ten days it reappeared on top of the gravestone. No one had ever seen anything like it, and no one knew what to do. The cemetery authorities were trembling with trepidation, but they finally had to tell the parents about these strange events.

"Little Nacho's grieving parents immediately knew the solution. 'Leave his coffin on top of his grave. He feared the dark in life. Of course he fears it in death as well.' And there it stayed, and here it still stays. Little Nacho rests above the ground."

Lourdes raised her hand. "And all those little toys and candies around the base of the tomb? Why are they there?"

Our guide smiled briefly. "They say that if you leave Little Nacho a a small gift or a piece of candy, your life in the future will be sweet."

We moved along to the next monument. Jessica stopped abruptly in front of a large carved stone tomb. "Two people are buried here, José María Castaños and Andrea Retes. They were so much in love and planning to be married, but the boy's mother hated the girl because she was from a lower social class.

"The two lovers were so upset by José María's mother's anger and hatred that they killed themselves. When his mother found out what happened, she almost went crazy from grief and guilt. She owned a plot in this cemetery and begged permission from Andrea's parents to bury the two lovers together. She had a double cross carved and placed on their tomb as a way of asking for God's forgiveness.

"Still, José María's mother's guilt would not leave her in peace. She knew she was the one responsible for the two deaths. Cry though she might, she could not get rid of the pain in her heart. Months later, she decided to take a wreath of flowers to lay on the grave. She draped the wreath over the double cross, just the way a lasso (ceremonial rope symbolizing marital union) is draped over the bride and groom at their wedding.

"A sudden silence fell over the cemetery as José María's mother laid the wreath over the cross. Even the birds stopped singing. In that silent instant, the wreath of beautiful fresh flowers turned to stone, just the way we see them today. And with that sign, José María's mother finally believed that the two young lovers had forgiven her."

In 1996 the stone crosses on the Castaños tomb fell and suffered some damage, but they remain united by their wreath of flowers.

Whispering among ourselves about the stories we'd heard, our not-so-brave little band followed behind Jessica as she led us toward the next grave site. One of the women with us murmured, "I hear they have night tours here. I don't think I'd have the courage to come here in the dark. It's scary enough in the broad daylight."

Jessica turned around. "There are night tours, on Fridays and on some special days, too. There will be night tours celebrating the Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) this year. In fact, it's a marathon. Four tours will start every hour or so, beginning at seven o'clock at night and lasting all night long. The whole cemetery will be full of people."

Lourdes and I looked at one another and nodded. "I wouldn't miss it, would you?" she whispered.

Our next graveside stop was at the tomb of the sailor. Jessica told us that unlike other legendary Navy men, this sailor did not have a girl in every port. Instead, he had an enemy in every port. Sailing Mexico's west coast, he stole jewelry, gold coins, and everything else of value he could expropriate from the rightful owners. The sailor was a pirate, and he had a huge stash of valuables.

The tombstone of el marinero (the sailor), who buried a huge bag of gold coins—somewhere. Will you be the one to learn the secret?

"Only he knew where the booty was. Even though he had a son, he never told even his son where all the treasure was hidden. When the sailor was very old, he moved to Guadalajara and spent his last few months of life here. When he died, the secret of his treasure died with him."

Jessica smoothed her pretty pink skirt. "They say that you have to light a candle and pray the rosary with all your heart, right here at his grave at midnight. But you have to do it without fear, and many people have tried. They're not afraid when they start out, but about half way through the rosary something happens. They start trembling with fear, and they have to give up and run away. No one has ever made it through a whole rosary, but if you want to try it some midnight, they say that the ghost of the sailor will come out from behind the grave stone and tell you where the treasure is hidden." She shook her finger. "You won't find me here at midnight!"

I was surprised to see two side-by-side crypts with epitaphs in English. When I looked closer, I could see that the husband and wife were natives of Paisley, Scotland. Lourdes asked me, "How can you tell that they were married?"

I pointed out the word wife engraved into the marble of Jean Young's crypt marker. "That means esposa," I whispered to Lourdes.

Joseph Johnston, a doctor from Scotland, and his wife, Jean Young, are buried side by side in two crypts. They both died in Guadalajara in 1896.

Jessica was telling the story. "The man buried here was a doctor, but not one of those doctors who was only in the profession for the money. In fact, most of the time he didn't even want to accept payment for curing people. He did it from his heart. Nobody knows how he arrived in Guadalajara, but he and his wife both died here in 1896. And today, if you come to their graves and ask for a favor while you're praying the rosary, the couple will take charge of seeing to it that you have a lot of good luck, good health, and all the money you need." She looked at us and smiled. "And love, too. They'll make sure that the one you love also loves you. But you have to be praying from the heart."

Just one of the hundreds of crypts in Guadalajara's Panteón de Belén.

Those buried in the Panteón de Belén range from the highest of Guadalajara's 19th Century high society to the poorest of the poor, who were buried in common graves in the furthest part of the cemetery grounds. Among the elite are Ramón Corona, a governor of Jalisco; Enrique Díaz de León, the first rector of the University of Guadalajara; José Silverio Núñez, the second governor of Colima; and Carlos Villaseñor, a painter whose ashes now rest in the Rotonda de Hombres Ilustres across the street from the Metropolitan Cathedral. A glance at the list of important people buried in the cemetery is like reading a list of the street names of Guadalajara.

There are also graves marked only with a first name: Rafael, Enrique, Joaquín. These are children born out of wedlock. Rather than shame the mother, the child was buried with no last name on the tombstone.

There are many, many more legends to tell from the Panteón de Belén. We heard about the woman who was buried alive, the hanging tree, the night watchman, the horse and carriage, the empty tomb that bears a name, the priest shot by a firing squad, the student gone crazy—there are all of these tales and more to make the blood run just a little cold.

A Mexican girl's quinceañera (15th birthday celebration) is the most important day of her life, the day she leaves her childhood behind and is presented to God and to society as a young woman. 

Today, the cemetery is a popular spot for portraits. Quinceañeras (young women celebrating their fifteenth birthdays) dressed in fabulous gowns and carrying beautiful bouquets are photographed every day of the week. Lourdes and I saw two lovely young women, one in floor length, pale pink tulle and the other in cream satin with puffed sleeves, each being photographed next to carved pilasters. Newlyweds arrive after their weddings on Saturday afternoons, the brides radiant as they lean against a 19th Century mausoleum and smile into their new husbands' eyes.

The cemetery is romantic, it's beautiful, and it's an island of peace in the heart of Guadalajara. Here among the ghosts and legends of the past, today's young people celebrate their new lives.

Looking for a tailored-to-your-interests specialized tour in Mexico? Click here: Tours.

Traditional Food for Day of the Dead :: Calabaza en Tacha (Winter Squash in Brown Sugar Syrup)

This is just a portion of one gigantic calabaza de castilla (squash from Castilla), the winter squash that's used to make calabaza en tacha (squash cooked in syrup).  Calabaza en tacha is a dish that's frequently seen on a Día de Muertos ofrenda (Day of the Dead altar). 

The portion of squash in my photo (above) is about 18" in diameter; you probably will want to look for a smaller one in a Latin market near you. Right now, I'm seeing these squash in all the markets here in Mexico City, and it's the perfect cold-weather treat for your family.  Even though the name of the squash suggests that it comes from Spain, it's Mexican in origin and is truly delicious in this recipe.  Below the squash in the photo are beets, and behind the squash are plátanos machos (plantains).

Mari, the woman who at one time spoiled Mexico Cooks! by doing all of my housework, gave me a squash.  She brought two home from her rancho (the family farm) out in the country, one for her family and one for me.  The 8" diameter squash wasn't very big, as Mexican winter squash go, but it was plenty for me.  Mari's first question, after I had happily accepted her gift, was whether or not I knew how to cook it.  "Con piloncillo y canela, sí?" (With cones of brown sugar and cinnamon, right?) 


The squash Mari gave me, next to a charming kneeling figurine dressed in ropa típica (typical dress) and selling typical green-glazed clay pottery from Michoacán.  The figurine is made of cloth and is about 6" high; her wares are miniatures of the real thing.

Even though I knew how to spice the squash and knew how to cut it apart, knowing and doing these things turned out to be worlds apart.  Faced with the project, I waffled and hesitated, intimidated by a large vegetable.  The squash sat on the counter for several days, daring me to cook it before it molded.  Then one of the cats toppled it over and rolled it around on the counter, so I moved the squash outside onto the terrace table and gathered my nerve. 

On Sunday, I finally decided it was Cook the Squash Day. Mari was due to arrive early on Monday morning and it had to be done before she scolded me for letting it sit for so long.  I chose pots, knives, and gathered the rest of the simple ingredients for a mise en place.

The squash with the first section cut out.

Cutting the squash in sections was the only difficult part of preparing it.  The shell of the squash is hard.  Hard.  HARD.  I was careful to keep the huge, sharp, carbon steel knife I was using pointed toward the wall, not toward my body.  With the force I needed to cut the squash open, one slip of the knife could have meant instant and deep penetration of my innards. I felt really tough, knowing that I'd been able to cut it open with just a big knife and a few pointed words.  (That's shorthand for 'I swore at it till the air turned blue above my counter').

The squash, cut into sections and ready for the pot.  On the counter behind the squash is a 1930's Mexican covered cazuela (casserole), the top in the form of a turkey.

Once I had the (few pointed words) squash cut open, I scooped out the seeds and goop--many people just cook those along with the squash flesh--and cut it into sections more or less 4" long by 3" wide.  I did not remove the hard shell, nor should you.


Piloncillo (raw brown sugar) cones in two sizes.  The large one weighs 210 grams; the small one weighs 35 grams.  I use the small ones in the recipe below.  You'll also find these at your local Latin market.

Meantime, I had prepared the ingredients for the almíbar (thick syrup) that the squash would cook in.  Mexican stick cinnamon, granulated sugar, and piloncillo (cones of brown sugar) went into a pot of water.  I added a big pinch of salt, tied anise seed and cloves into a square of cheesecloth and tossed the little bundle into the water.  The pot needed to simmer for at least three hours, until the syrup was thick and well-flavored.

Clockwise from left: Mexican stick cinnamon, anise seed, piloncillo, and cloves.

Several hours later (after the syrup thickened well), I added the pieces of squash to the pot.  Cooking time for this very hard squash was approximately an hour and a half over a low-medium flame. 

As the squash cooks in the syrup, it softens and takes on a very appetizing dark brown color.  Calabaza en tacha is one of the most typically homey Mexican dishes for desayuno (breakfast) or cena (supper).  Well heated and served in a bowl with hot milk and a little of its own syrup, the squash is both nutritious and filling.

Squash for breakfast!  On Monday morning, Mexico Cooks! served up a bowl of squash with hot milk, along with a slice of pan relleno con chilacayote (bread filled with sweetened chilacayote squash paste) for Mari.  Her first question was,"How did you get that squash cut open?"  Mari laughed when I told her about my struggle, and then told me that her husband had cut their squash apart with a machete.  Mari thought my squash came out almost--almost--as good as hers.

In the evening, a friend came over to have some of the squash for a late supper.  HER first question was, of course, "How did you get that squash cut open?"  After I told her, she told me that her mother takes a squash like mine up to the roof of their house and throws it down onto the patio to break it apart!  

Calabaza en Tacha estilo Mexico Cooks!

Ingredients
One medium-size hard shell winter squash (about 8" high)
6 cups water
14 small or 2 large cones of dark piloncillo (Mexico's raw brown sugar)
2 cups granulated sugar
4 Mexican cinnamon sticks about 2.5" long
1 Tbsp anise seed
1 tsp cloves

Preparation
Heat the water in a large pot.  Add the piloncillo, the granulated sugar, and the cinnamon sticks.  Tie the anise seed and the cloves into a cheesecloth square and add it to the pot.  Cook over a slow flame until the liquid is thick and syrupy, approximately three hours.

While the syrup is cooking, prepare the squash.  Cut it into serving-size pieces as described above.  If the squash shell is very hard, take adequate precautions so that you do not hurt yourself as you cut it in sections.  You can always throw it from your second-floor window onto the patio!

Add the squash pieces to the thickened syrup and simmer until the squash is soft and takes on a deep brown color.  Cool for 15 minutes or so before serving.  Re-heat for desayuno (breakfast) or cena (supper).  Serve with hot or cold milk poured over it.

Makes about 16 servings.

¡Provecho!

Looking for a tailored-to-your-interests specialized tour in Mexico? Click here: Tours.

Day and Night of the Dead in Indigenous Mexico :: Oh Death, Where Is Thy Sting?

Remember me as you pass by,
As you are now, so once was I.
As I am now, so you will be,
Prepare for death and follow me.
                   ...from a tombstone

What is death?  We know its first symptoms: the heart stops pumping, breath and brain activity stop. We know death's look and feel: a still, cold body from which the spirit has fled.  The orphan and widow know death's sorrow, the priest knows the liturgy of the departed and the prayers to assuage the pain of those left to mourn. But in most English-speaking countries, death and the living are not friends.  We the living look away from our mortality, we talk of the terminally ill in terms of 'if anything happens', not 'when she dies'.  We hang the crepe, we cover the mirrors, we say the beads, and some of us fling ourselves sobbing upon the carefully disguised casket as it is lowered into the Astroturf-lined grave.

Octavio Paz, Mexico City's Nobel Laureate poet and essayist who died in 1998, is famously quoted as saying, "In New York, Paris, and London, the word death is never mentioned, because it burns the lips."


Tzintzuntzan, Michoacán panteón (cemetery), Mexico Cooks! photo.  These fellows sing to la Descarnada (the fleshless woman) on November 2, 2009.

In Mexico, on the contrary, every day is a dance with death.  Death is a woman who has a numerous affectionate and humorous nicknames: la Huesuda (the bony woman), la Seria (the serious woman), la Novia Fiel (the faithful bride), la Igualadora (the equalizer), la Dientona (the toothy woman), la Pelona (the bald woman), la Patrona (the boss lady), and a hundred more. She's always here, just around the next corner or maybe right over there, behind that pillar.  She waits with patience, until later today or until twelve o'clock next Thursday, or until sometime next year--but when it's your time to go, she's right there, ready to dance away with you at her side. 


November 2013 altar to La Santa Muerte (Holy Death), Sta. Ana Chapirito (near Pátzcuaro), Michoacán. Devotees of this deathly apparition say that her cult has existed since before the Spanish arrived in Mexico.

In Mexico, death is also in the midst of life.  We see our dead, alive as you and me, each November, when we wait at our cemeteries for those who have gone before to come home, if only for a night. That, in a nutshell, is Noche de Muertos: the Night of the Dead.


In the lower center portion of this photograph, you can see the Quiroga, Michoacán, panteón municipal (town cemetery).  Late in the afternoon of November 1, 2013, most townspeople had not yet gone to the cemetery with candles and flowers for their loved ones' graves. Click on any photograph for a larger view.

Over the course of the last 35-plus years, Mexico Cooks! has been to countless Noche de Muertos events, but none as mystical, as magical, or as profoundly spiritual as that of 2013.  Invited to accompany a very small group on a private tour in Michoacán, I looked forward to spending three days enjoying the company of old and new friends. I did all that, plus I came away with an extraordinarily privileged view of life and death.


A magnificent Purépecha ofrenda (in this case, a home altar) in the village of Santa Fe de la Laguna, Michoacán. This detailed and lovely ofrenda was created to the memory of the family's maiden aunt, who died at 74. Because she had never married, even at her advanced age she was considered to be an angelito (little angel)--like an innocent child--and her spirit was called back home to the family on November 1, the day of the angelitos.  Be sure to click on the photo to see the details of the altar. Fruits, breads, incense, salt, flowers, colors, and candles have particular symbolism and are necessary parts of the ofrenda.


Detail of the ofrenda casera (home altar) shown above. Several local people told Mexico Cooks! that the fruit piled on the altar tasted different from fruit from the same source that had not been used for the ofrenda. "Compramos por ejemplo plátanos y pusimos unos en el altar y otros en la cocina para comer. Ya para el día siguiente, los de la cocina tenían sabor normal, pero los del altar no tenían nada de sabor, no supieron a nada," they said.  'We bought bananas, for example, and we put some on the altar and the rest in the kitchen to eat.  The next day, the ones in the kitchen were fine, but the ones from the altar had no taste at all.'


Preparing a family member's ofrenda (altar) in the camposanto in the village of Arócutin, Michoacán. The camposanto--literally, holy ground--is a cemetery contained within the walls of a churchyard.  The beautiful beeswax candles used in this area of Michoacán are hand made in Ihuatzio and Santa Fé de la Laguna.

Come with me along the unlit road that skirts the Lago de Pátzcuaro: Lake Pátzcuaro.  It's chilly and the roadside weeds are damp with rain that fell earlier in the evening, but for the moment the sky has cleared and is filled with stars.  Up the hill on the right and down the slope leading left toward the lake are tiny villages, dark but for the glow of tall candles lit one by one in the cemeteries. Tonight is November 1, the night silent souls wend their way home from Mictlán, the land beyond life.

At the grave: candlelight to illuminate the soul's way, cempazúchitl (deeply orange marigolds) for their distinctive fragrance required to open the path back home, smoldering copal (frankincense) to cleanse the earth and air of any remnants of evil, covered baskets of the deceased's favorite foods.  And a low painted chair, where the living can rest through the night.


Watching through the night.  This tumba (grave) refused to be photographed head-on.  From an oblique angle, the tumba allowed its likeness to be made.


"Oh grave, where is thy victory?  Oh death, where is thy sting?"

Noche de Muertos is not a costume party, although you may see it portrayed as such in the press.  It is not a drunken brawl, although certain towns appear to welcome that sort of blast-of-banda-music reventón (big blow-out). It is not a tourist event, though respectful strangers are certainly welcomed to these cemeteries. Noche de Muertos is a celebration of the spirit's life over the body's death, a festival of remembrance, a solemn passover. Years ago, in an interview published in the New York Times, Mexico Cooks! said, "Noche de Muertos is about mutual nostalgia.  The living remember the dead, and the dead remember the taste of home."


One by one, grave by grave, golden cempazúchitles give shape to rock-bound tombs and long candles give light to what was a dark and lonely place, transforming the cemetery into a glowing garden.  How could a soul resist this setting in its honor?  


"Our hearts remember..." we promise the dead.  Church bells toll slowly throughout the night, calling souls home with their distinctive clamor (death knell).  Come...come home.  Come...come home.


Waiting.  Prayers.  No se me olvido de tí, mi viejo amado. (I haven't forgotten you, my dear old man.)

Next year, come with me.

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