Though I’ve never been to Minnesota, I know that winter in Louisiana cannot compare with winter there. Winter in Minnesota is horrendously cold; temperatures can actually go to –60 degrees F. As I sit at this computer with a blanket draped over my shoulders, I think about the coldest places I have lived. In rank order by degrees closest to freezing, the three that come immediately to mind are the bedroom in my childhood home, the second house I lived in as a newlywed, and, on some days, the house I am currently living in.
Some houses have a reason for being so cold. The cracks in the walls and floors of my childhood home were obviously to blame for my lying in bed on frosty mornings, covering my ears with quilts, and engaging in a game of pretend smoking—two fingers holding an imaginary cigarette to my lips, pulling cold air into my lungs, then exhaling a vaporous smoke that disappeared along with the warmth of my breath. In that house, if you were going to engage in any fantasies or do any philosophizing, you did it while you were in bed under a pile of covers. Once those were thrown back, the race was on to get to the kitchen or living room where you could cozy up to a space heater, squeezing between your older brothers who had already gotten the prime seats; or waiting until one of them stood to get coffee, and taking his seat in the never-ending game of musical chairs.
The second house I lived in as a newlywed was an old Acadian house in St. Martin parish. The landlord told us the walls were well insulated with boussillage, a mixture of mud and Spanish moss. We moved there in August, just before the school year started and loved living in the old house. Then winter arrived. Boussillage or not, this house was a repeat of my childhood home, only this time my mother and father were not there to light the heaters so that at least one room would be warm before I had to throw the covers back. Now Harvey and I were the grown-ups, and neither of us were grown-up enough to do it without complaining, shivering, and saying, “I think it’s your turn this morning.”
The house I now live in has every convenience, including heating and air-conditioning systems that are supposed to keep every room evenly heated and cooled at whatever temperature I set. Only it doesn’t work that way. In summer, this house is always too warm, and in winter, it is always too cold. I’ve called the experts numerous times; and each time they assure me it is fixed, but it never is. I’m learning to live with it, and I have found that winter in this house does bring me fond memories of winter in the other two houses.
In my childhood home, on the really cold mornings, my mother would always come to my room with a tray of warm biscuits and hot chocolate. She would fluff up the pillow behind me, tuck the covers up under my arms, and put the tray on my lap. There I would have breakfast in bed, just as though I were a princess. This was not just a once-in-a-while event—she did this each school day during winter, while frost crystals were on the ground and the sun was just beginning to light the sky.
The memory of the Acadian house is not so poetic, but nonetheless, still one to cherish. We learned to cope with the frigid Acadian house by immediately turning on the oven and the electric blanket as soon as we walked in the door after school. The space heater in the bathroom was next. We’d leave the door open so that the heater’s meager warmth might register one foot-candle into the hallway. Then came the grand preparations for supper. Opening the freezer was not really a dreaded event since the air inside appeared to be the same temperature, if not warmer, than the kitchen. The freezer was filled with chicken pot pies (Swanson), and every day, Harvey and I would hurriedly shove two pies into the oven, then race to the bedroom, jump under the electric blanket, and wait for the pies to cook. When the timer rang, one of us would scurry to the kitchen and bring back the pies so that—you guessed it—we could eat under the electric blanket. We knew we were being ridiculous, yet we laughed, ate, and stayed warm with that same routine for one whole winter.
Being cold is a dreaded event for me. I could never live in Minnesota. My hands and feet would never warm up. But being here in Louisiana, being just cold enough, has brought more wonderful food memories to the fore. I’ve enjoyed sitting here thinking of those pot pies and Mama’s biscuits and hot chocolate. I might not have given them much thought if the heating system in this house worked right.
