Cooking is transformed when cooking for Día De Los Muertos. Traditionally, passed down from mother to daughter, with delicate visceral senses. A mundane habitual routine transformed into a ceremony as we share our favorite meal of our loved ones who’ve crossed over into the land of the dead. We remember our roots and celebrate our heritage, the mnemonic device of cooking family recipe—homemade tortillas.

My grandmother always stressed the importance of storytelling. The first step was to find a universal truth. One day, while grocery shopping, I noticed an aisle titled, “Mexican Food” and I noted this as a potential candidate. 

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Día De Los Muertos is not Halloween nor is it a ghost story. 

My grandmother would not allow me to transform our culture into an adaptation of Halloween. My intent is to tell a story for my children, nieces, and their children to remember their mothers on Día De Los Muertos. 

Everyone Knows You Go Home by Natalia Sylvester focuses on intergenerational trauma, and identity in relation to the tradition. This book reveals Halloween’s appropriation of our culture. Children whose parents have recently died from COVID are afraid of Halloween because they believe their parents are ghosts returning to haunt them. Sylvester writes in her book “The couple’s smiles froze. It seemed to take an eternity for either of them to speak, and when they did, they had little more than mumbles” (1).

My own children don’t want to celebrate anymore. I take my girls to H-E-B, and they don’t want to even look at Halloween decor. 

The rise of appropriation of Día De Los Muertos on prominent display alongside Halloween merchandise in retail and grocery stores confuses my children and my nieces. And at this point, all the girls are afraid my sister will haunt them. These girls believe creating an altar will summon evil spirits to feast. 

My girlfriend recommends creating a cookbook of family recipes with their stories. She believes our tradition needs to be redefined as a festival of food and music, devoid of Halloween. 

I think she’s right.

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Close your eyes, what single word comes to mind when you think of home? Was it the word “food”? For mine, it is the smell of homemade flour tortillas. In my home, cooking tortillas is done in its minimalist form, engineered and perfected through tradition, no measuring, utensils, or a pan. Your hands are the measuring cup and the spatula.

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When my sister, Stephanie died in 2019, it became my responsibility to teach my nieces to cook the meal for the altar. 

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On the first night of Día De Los Muertos, my family listens to music while cooking. We do this for two reasons. To celebrate our ancestors, honoring those who’ve passed, and to feel connected to each other, the living and the dead. We’ve been celebrating for as far back as I can remember. We may not have our own theme music like Halloween or Christmas yet, but that doesn’t stop my father from celebrating with his favorite Vicente Fernandez record. While my mother begins with: 

“Mija,” she says to my sister. “Try to remember when I taught you to tie your shoe. Do you remember the story of bunny ears? 

We tell stories to help us remember. 

“Today it is time I teach you how to make homemade tortillas and learn about your family roots.” 

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Early one morning during the Mexican civil war, Pancho Villa and his army were fighting in our hometown and our family restaurant was burned down. My great-grandfather decided to move the family to America. My grandmother, Amparo, watched her mother and father frantically pack clothes and food for the journey to the American border. Grandma Amparo and her parents took one final look at the mountain landscape before their long journey, seeking asylum in America during the Mexican Revolution. 

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“What do you think Great Grandma Amparo packed for food?”

“Tortillas?”

“Yes, of course tortillas mija. But what else did she pack?” 

My sister, Stephanie was instructed to grab the all-purpose flour, salt, and baking powder from the pantry. 

“Your great grandmother packed flour, salt, and baking powder. We are still missing the secret ingredient for tortillas, but we don’t need it until later.” 

My mother instructs my sister, “I want you to take two handfuls of flour and make a little mountain on the counter. This is the Jalisco landscape.” She pauses for my sister to finish measuring about 4 cups of flour with her tiny hands. 

“Now, our mountain needs snow. I want you to fill the palm of your hand with baking powder and I want you to do this twice.” My sister’s palm looks about 1 ½ teaspoons full. 

“Great Job, mija!” 

“Your grandmother and her parents had to sleep outdoors in their clothes. Amparo wanted to go home.” My mother gestures to my sister to do as she does and pours a little salt in the palm of her hand, about 1 teaspoon, and my sister does the same and they sprinkle the 2 teaspoons of salt over the mound of flour and baking powder. 

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My grandmother, Amparo and her family arrived safely at the banks of the Rio Grande River where the community started banding together and combining resources to make a little city. There was music and food organized in Mercado Square, an outdoor farmer’s market. 

“There is no time for tears mijita because tomorrow is a new beginning. We are going to open a restaurant in America.” Amparo promised not to cry anymore and ran to her mother who was cooking. 

“Ah, mijita! Let’s make this place feel like home. We are going to make Tortillas.” Amparo held her mother’s hand with white knuckled sweaty palms as they walked toward the sunset tent city, an evening landscape of music and food. 

“Mijita, remember, the secret ingredient to making great tortillas is bacon grease.”

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My mother reaches over to a ceramic lid just next to the stove and instructs my sister to take a handful of grease. Stephanie reluctantly dips her hand in the oozing glob of bacon grease that resembles 6 tablespoons.

My mother laughed at my sister’s grimacing smile and said, 

“Now you know how your grandmother felt that night on the border.” My mother instructs my sister to mix the handful of lard with the mountain of ingredients. Steph begins to fold the lard into the mix, kneading until the dough substance returns to powder form. 

“Now that our mountain is gone, we add water for new life and new beginnings. We shape our mountain into a bowl ready to receive our warm water.” 

After my mother inspects my sister’s makeshift bowl, she gently pours the 2 cups of warm water. Steph watches to see if the water will spill out but my mother folds in the mix. The sticky mixture is kneaded in a furious level of efficiency by my mother and she instructs my sister to grab the neatly folded kitchen towel and cover the dough. “Now, let’s wash your hands.” My mother lifts Steph up on a step stool and washes her hands in the kitchen sink. 

“Your grandmother had to wash her hands in the river, aren’t you glad we get to wash our hands in the kitchen sink?” 

My sister loved the attention from our mom. My mother was scrubbing the dough out of Steph’s tiny fingernails. Steph was laughing at my father’s grito just before singing along to his favorite song, El Rey by Vicente Fernandez “…

Llorar y llorar!” 

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For my family, when we go out to eat, the restaurant must have “Jalisco” in the name. My father always says this is how we know it is “authentic”. My grandfather was the same. It just might have to do with Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico, where my family lived before the Mexican Revolution. 

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Twenty minutes have passed, and the dough is ready. 

“Just like your grandmother, I want you to do as I do and take a pinch of dough and roll it into a ball.” 

After all the dough is divided up and stored back under the kitchen towel my mother reaches for two cups. The empty jam jar will be repurposed as a drinking glass. 

“Your grandmother made tortillas just like this. And with glasses just like these.” 

The jam jars had a lip at the top and bottom of the outer rim that measured the right amount of thickness for the tortillas. And these homemade tortillas were nothing like the store bought, they were half as thick as pita bread.

My sister carefully rolled the glass jam jar across the dough while my mother steam-rolled over the rest. Watching my mom, as she moved with the grace and efficiency of a tortilla making machine, transforming raw dough into a tortilla, then flipping the flatten dough onto the gas stove. Watching the tortilla form bubbles and rise over the flame, my mother flipped the tortilla again and again, until it was ready to eat. As soon as the first tortilla was done, my mother smeared a square slice of butter on the center, folded it, and diapered it with a napkin before handing it to me. Mmm, the smell of butter, bacon, and warm tortilla dough will always be home. 

Any other night, the first homemade tortilla is always mine, but on this day, she motions to the ofrenda with the old photo of a young wealthy couple and child, all adorned in fur coats and says, 

“On Día De Los Muertos, the first tortilla is for my grandmother and great grandparents.”  

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2019 marks a new generation of our family tradition. My two nieces place their first homemade tortilla on their mother’s ofrenda.