Pan De Muerto – Sweet Bread With Orange Blossom For Día De Los Muertos.

My primo Mateo swore he could charm bread into rising faster. ¡Ay Dios mío!, you should have seen it.

Okay, so Pan de Muerto—Bread of the Dead—sounds… dramatic, right? (It is.) It’s not like we're baking for zombies or anything. Well, not exactly. This isn't Halloween, mija. Día de los Muertos is about remembering those who came before us, honoring their lives, welcoming their spirits back home. You build an ofrenda – an altar – with pictures, food they loved, maybe a little tequila for the ones who enjoyed a good time (looking at you, Tío Rafael!). And the bread? That’s a big part.

Now, the history? It goes WAY back. Before the Spanish even showed up, indigenous people in Mexico were making breads to honor the dead. They used amaranth seeds, not wheat yet. Then, when the Spaniards arrived, they brought wheat AND sugar, which... changed everything. It became a mix of traditions - the old and the new - resulting in the fluffy, orange-blossom scented goodness we know today. The 'bones' on top aren't spooky; they represent the departed. See? Meaningful!

My abuela, she took this very seriously. Every year, same deal. She’d start prepping three days early. Three! Like she was building the pyramids. I remember being small, standing on a stool trying to help, mostly just getting flour everywhere. And my cousins, always trying to sneak bites of the dough. Especially Mateo. He thought he could hypnotize the yeast. Honestly, that boy...

One year, Mateo decided he was a Pan de Muerto whisperer. He was convinced if he talked sweetly to the dough, it would rise faster. He sat there, next to the bowl, whispering things like “Grow, little bread, grow! Be fluffy for Abuela!” My Tía Elena walked in and nearly choked on her café. "What are you doing, Mateo? Talking to the bread?" He swore it was working. Of course, it wasn't. Everyone knows you need patience and a warm place, not sweet talk.

And then there was the great Salsa Incident of ‘98. Tía Mildred, bless her heart, decided to help with the glaze. (Big mistake.) She got distracted by a novela—don’t even ask, it involved a stolen inheritance and a secret twin—and accidentally dumped an entire jar of salsa into the orange blossom water. ¡Ay Dios mío! The smell… It was horrific. The kitchen looked like a crime scene. My abuela almost lost it. She grabbed the chancla. You know, the chancla. (It has its own zip code.)

Tía Mildred tried to blame the dog. Seriously. Said the dog must have knocked over the salsa. We all knew better. The dog was innocent. He was sleeping under the table, dreaming of bones, probably. (Ironically.) The glaze had to be completely remade. And Tía Mildred was banned from the kitchen for the rest of the day. Although she kept sneaking glances at the novela.

My cousin Isabella, she always thought she could improve on Abuela’s recipe. Every year, she’d add something different. One year it was chocolate chips (sacrilege!), another year it was pecans (better, but still…). Abuela would just sigh and let her experiment. She said, “Let her learn, mija. Let her make her mistakes.” Though I saw her secretly slip extra orange blossom water into my batch when Isabella wasn’t looking. A woman's gotta protect her legacy, you know?

And don't even get me started on the competition between my aunts. They each wanted their Pan de Muerto to be the most beautiful. The most symmetrical. The most... everything. There were accusations of sabotage, passive-aggressive compliments, and a whole lot of side-eye. It was like a telenovela in itself. Once, Tía Sofia tried to hide Tía Elena’s best decorating tools. It ended with both of them yelling about marzipan roses.

I remember one year, I was tasked with making the little "bones." You form them out of dough and lay them across the top of the bread. Mateo, still trying to prove his bread-whispering skills, insisted he could make the most realistic bones ever. He spent hours sculpting them. They looked… alarming. Like actual skeletal remains. My abuela took one look and said, “Mateo, these are scaring the children!”

Then there was the time my brother, Luis, tried to use Abuela's special panela—the unrefined sugar—as ammunition in a Nerf gun fight. The kitchen was coated in sticky sweetness. Abuela didn’t say a word. She just stared at him. That stare could curdle milk. Luis learned his lesson. Fast. (He's a lawyer now; very careful with his sugar.)

Abuela always said that making Pan de Muerto wasn’t just about baking. It was about family. About remembering. About honoring those who came before us. It was about the chaos, the laughter, the spilled salsa, and the near-chancla incidents. (Especially the chancla incidents.) And honestly? She was right. It's all part of the tradition. The scent of orange blossom filling the house... it brings them back. You feel them near, you know?

Recipe

Ingredients 🌽🥘

• 4 cups (500g) all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting
• ½ cup (100g) granulated sugar
• 2 teaspoons active dry yeast
• ¼ teaspoon salt
• ½ cup (113g) unsalted butter, softened
• 4 large eggs
• ¼ cup (60ml) orange juice
• 2 tablespoons orange zest
• 2 tablespoons orange blossom water (¡importantísimo!)
• For the glaze: ½ cup (100g) powdered sugar, 1-2 tablespoons orange blossom water
• For decoration: 1/4 cup melted butter, granulated sugar for sprinkling, marzipan or dough for bones

Tools 🔪🥄

• Large mixing bowl
• Stand mixer with dough hook attachment (optional, but helpful)
• Baking sheet
• Parchment paper
• Small bowls
• Pastry brush

Steps

1. In a large bowl (or the bowl of your stand mixer), combine the flour, sugar, yeast, and salt. Don’t overthink it. Just get it mixed.
2. Add the softened butter, eggs, orange juice, orange zest, and orange blossom water. Mix until a shaggy dough forms. Knead for about 8-10 minutes (longer if doing it by hand) until smooth and elastic. It should be soft, but not sticky. Remember Mateo? You can’t just talk to it.
3. Place the dough in a lightly greased bowl, turning to coat. Cover with plastic wrap and let rise in a warm place for about 1 hour, or until doubled in size. This is where patience comes in, mija.
4. Preheat oven to 350°F (175°C). Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
5. Punch down the dough gently. Divide into portions. Form one large round loaf, and smaller pieces for the "bones". Arrange the bones on top of the loaf to resemble skeletal remains. Be creative! Unless you’re Mateo. His were terrifying.
6. Brush the loaf with melted butter and sprinkle generously with granulated sugar. Bake for 25-30 minutes, or until golden brown and cooked through.
   ⏱ Timer
7. While the bread cools slightly, prepare the glaze by whisking together the powdered sugar and orange blossom water. Drizzle over the warm bread. ¡Perfecto!
8. Decorate with marzipan shapes or more dough “bones” if desired. Let cool completely before serving. Resist sneaking bites—it's hard, I know.

Make

-Ahead / Storage The dough can be made ahead of time and refrigerated for up to 24 hours. Punch it down before shaping. The baked bread is best enjoyed fresh, but leftovers can be stored in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 3 days.

Side Dish Pairing

This Pan de Muerto pairs beautifully with a steaming mug of Mexican hot chocolate or a fragrant cup of café de olla. It's also lovely served alongside a simple fruit salad.

Remember Mateo? You can’t just talk to it.

You have to compliment it, too.

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