Last year, on the morning of November first, I was drinking hot chocolate in a little village in Oaxaca, Mexico, celebrating Dia de los Muertos with a farmer named Francisco Marquez. For Francisco and his family, the Day of the Dead, is more important than Christmas.

I came to Oaxaca to learn about the role that food plays in the celebration. I had read that in ancient Mesoamerican religions, foods and beverages were piled on altars and offered to the ancestors during the harvest season. Francisco showed me his family's Day of the Dead ofrenda. On the elaborate three level altar there were a few old photographs, religious statues and candles , but mostly it was covered with fruits, beverages and the loaves of bread called pan muertos. On the day of the Dead the spirits of the departed return for a visit. And they are hungry and thirsty after the long trip, Francisco explained. I knelt down to admire some tiny cups of hot chocolate and little loaves of bread for the angelitos, which are the souls of the dead infants.

"The angelitos come first in the morning, then they leave at midday and we put out foods for the adult spirits," Francisco told me. I wondered how he could be so precise about these spiritual mealtimes. At exactly 12 noon, fireworks exploded and church bells starting ringing. On cue, Vincenta and Margarita, Francisco's mother and wife, came out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of black mole, a rich sweet and savory sauce, and a bottle of mezcal for Francisco's father who loved both when he was alive.

Francisco poured me a hefty tumbler full of mezcal and held up his own glass. Normally, it would have been a little too early for heavy drinking, but I understood that I was not just joining Francisco, but also his dead father in this toast. I downed the kerosene-flavored beverage quickly and grimaced while Francisco poured another. Margarita offered a bowl of chicken in black mole and we sat around the ofrenda eating and drinking while Francisco told funny stories about his father.

Maybe it was the mezcal, but that night I dreamed I saw the face of a crying baby. I woke up and thought of my first and only son, Andrew, who was stillborn. For a few years afterward, we lit a candle on his birthday, but as time went by, with two daughters to raise, I forgot about the candles.

Scholars have found layer upon layer of meaning in Mexico's Day of the Dead celebration. But after spending the day with Francisco Marquez and his family, I settled for a simple understanding of the holiday: a time for the living to share a joyful meal with the dead.

So this morning, I am drinking coffee and eating donuts at a Day of the Dead ofrenda I've set up in my living room. I've put out a tiny cup of hot chocolate and a donut hole for my son Andrew. And at lunchtime, I'm looking forward to a glass of Scotch and a ham salad sandwich with dad.