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Allison Patino

Colada Morada and Guagua’s de Pan



It was the end of October when I started seeing them—the big red juice dispensers and plastic containers with bread in them. I had not noticed how close we were to November.


My mind had been focused on midterms. Filming an interview. Practicing the strokes of Chinese characters. I had forgotten that the Day of the Death was in two days. 


The same day I saw the containers, I asked my mom to buy the juice mix. I would buy the bread. This year we would make our colada morada.


Every Ecuadorian’s childhood memories are marked by holidays. They are signs of time passing. The arrival of a new year, the loss of another. And each holiday is associated with a special type of food. Colada morada and guaguas de pan (bread babies) meant that El Dia de los Santos Difuntos (Day of the Death) would soon arrive. A day to honor those who watch over us from the other side. 


Two days after the conversation with my mom, she bought the ingredients. The juice mix from the local Ecuadorian store and an assortment of fruits: canned mangoes, apples, blackberries, and strawberries. 


The process was not complicated. My mom cut up the fruits into squares. She boiled the water and then added the juice mix. She strained it. Then put it back in the pot and continued boiling it. 


By the end, my apartment felt like the pot of colada itself. Warm and fragrant with fruits and cinnamon. 


Standing there, I found myself back in my grandmother's house. With my uncles and aunties. All of us drinking the colada my grandma made. Listening to stories about those who left us and prayers for those who soon would. 


Before drinking my colada, I brought out the guaguas de pan. This bread has always been a funny tradition for me. A tiny human-shaped bread and the colorful lines on top of its body. Sweet little clothing on a little dough man.


When I take a bite of the little bread’s arm, it tastes sugary. Maybe taking apart a limb should not taste so, but it does. 


The colada is a thick dark purple substance. The fruit makes it difficult to drink so a spoon sat next to my mug. As I drank, it was as if the chaos inside me settled. I realized it was a feeling I had been waiting and craving all year long. 


The colada and guagua are ingrained in Ecuadorian’s palette of flavors and history.  I take one bite, a sip, and contemplate their significance on the Day of the Death.


I remember my grandmother telling me of the purple corn native to the Andean area. A good harvest of this specific corn signified a good year. An abundance of it also meant our ancestors would not suffer hunger. The same corn is now used for our colada.


These same ancestors had the tradition to saddle the death. Their form of respecting and protecting their remains. It is from this tradition that our little bread man came, said my grandmother. Another form for us to honor those who passed away.


This one day in November gives us time. The time our ancestors did not have. Time to grieve those who were taken. To rejoice in their lived experiences. To remember the happiness they made us feel. To feel the emptiness of their departure. 


My cousin Carlos passed away in July. I was not there when my mom received the call about the accident. I was not there when prayers became meaningless. I was not there to share the pain of deciding to disconnect him from the machine keeping him alive. 


But while I sat there with my mom, I let the salty taste of my tears mix with the sweetness of my colada. We talked of when he used to play hide and seek. When he built a little robot for his sister. How proud everyone was when he graduated college. The bittersweet existence of his two-month-old daughter. 


For some, this colada and this guagua are meaningless. They are simply bread and juice. But for me, family, love, and grief are connected to them. This juice and this bread. 

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