Cold House
Pizza
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The same Arctic cold that swept down
through the southwest and snowed on Houston brought to Jalisco, inland Mexico,
our own cold snap, minus snow, just short of freezing. At the same time, the
fires of southern California created winds that pushed clouds our way to hold
the frigid air close to the ground.
I can cope with an ordinary cold
winter day. By 10:30—11:00, the sun has warmed the air, the ground, and my
body—and my house. By afternoon, I’m togged out for summertime, only to add
layers of warm duds while the sun goes down. Then it’s dark, time for bed, to
snuggle under my down comforter, Cat Ballou curled at my feet.
You must understand, nobody’s house is
heated. Nobody’s house is insulated. The walls of my small house are all brick,
one layer of brick, with not even the benefit of a slathering of plaster.
Windows, not bug-tight, certainly are not airtight. So on a cloudy, cold and
windy day, the house is cold. I wear long-johns, wool socks, a shirt and three
sweaters. That’s when I’m up and moving around.
If I sit down, I wrap a zarape around my shoulders and a toss a wool
lap-blanket over my legs.
Count them; five cold, cloudy, windy
days with no heat. The bus to Puerta Vallarta looks mighty fine. But I’m tight
budgeted right now. Sadly, a trip to the coast is out of the question.
I bake bread, rolls, make a baked
pineapple pudding—anything that allows me to keep the oven burning. I make
capirotada, a traditional Mexican bread pudding with nuts, apples, raisins and
cubed cheese. I give food to the neighbors. I stuff my refrigerator. I eat my
fill. I’m still cold.
Lani phoned, “Ariel and I are going to
Oconahua for pizza. John and Carol are coming. We’d like you to join us.”
We’ve recently made the acquaintance
of Anna and Michelle, who live in Oconahua and, “for something to do,” opened a
shop, hung out a sign, Coffee Pizza. No, not coffee pizza, but good coffee and
good pizza.
Oconahua, about the size of Chinook,
hugs the mountains, eight kilometers up the road. Like Mexican towns of any
size, it has a beautiful plaza and Cathedral.
Ordinarily, I’d have been onboard in
a heartbeat. Not so much for pizza, a treat that doesn’t excite me, but for the
trip, the social outing. But my bones were cold. I’d envisioned crawling under
that comforter at sundown. “I don’t want to go this time, Lani.”
Lani is persistent. She bullied me,
in a good way. She bribed me. She
promised a pre-heated car ride. And a pizza-oven heated restaurant. I whined
but I assented.
We arrived shortly after the women
opened for business. Anna had the ovens roaring. Michelle manned the coffee
bar. Once we’d settled ourselves at a table, I forgot my discomfort, relaxed
and enjoyed the company of the two couples and our new friends.
Me, I drank hot chocolate, Mexican
style, frothy and topped with cream. The thick, smooth drink comforted me
better than any food.
The Coffee Pizza House is a cheerful
place, walls painted purple, turquoise, orange, green and pink. Townspeople walked
in, some came for take-out, some came to eat in. The music cranked up. More
folks came and went. We were made welcome, felt part of the community. There is
more than one kind of warm.
Another cold, cloudy day, no end in
sight. What can I put in the oven? I scan my cupboards, my refrigerator. Three
beautiful purple Mexican sweet potatoes. If I bake them one at a time . . .
Pizza—this afternoon, I’ll make
pizza, cold house pizza.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
December 14,
2017
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