Looking out my Backdoor: Cold house pizza

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 to 11 a.m., 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, time 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 grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].