by Charlie Geer
Baby, It’s Cold Inside
Summers in Andalucía tend to be hotter than the winters are cold, and for centuries local building practices have reflected that fact. The white limestone façades and spacious central patios, the stone floors and shady alleyways — in August, a resident appreciates this kind of thing. The problem is February. Winter in Andalucía can turn quite cold, and when it does, flaws in the built-for-summer design reveal themselves, especially to those of us whose flats have not been retrofitted with central air. On the one hand, it’s true that in winter we don’t have to remember to put the milk back in the fridge, or chill champagne ahead of a celebration. And the spectacle of steam-breath in a living room is kind of amazing. On the other hand, it’s usually mighty fucking cold inside.
Thankfully there is a form of relief: the brasero. Found wherever Andalusians may gather indoors, the brasero is a disk-shaped space heater situated under a central round table. Way back when, hot coals supplied the brasero’s heat; today, hot coils do; but the manner of insulating the heat hasn’t changed: a pleated circular blanket known as an enaguas, or “petticoat,” is draped over the table, making an oven — and lending the whole arrangement the look of an enormous decapitated Pac-Man ghost.
The idea is to pull a chair up close to the table, draw the petticoat onto your lap, and cozy up to the brasero within. As some gather around a bonfire or a hearth, Andalusians gather around the brasero. In winter it’s just the place to enjoy a family meal, play a parlor game, visit with a friend — or simply thaw out after a walk across the room.
Aside from the risk of catastrophic house fire, the only real downside to the brasero is that certain personality types may find it habit forming. An individual tucked up close to a brasero is not easily persuaded to leave it. When an individual is en brasero, nothing else much matters. Things like dirty dishes may not get taken care of in a prompt manner, if at all. In such a way, soporific and potentially addictive, the brasero can be said to behave like an opiate. The most potent concoction — the oxycodone of brasero culture — is a deluxe recliner pulled up close to the brasero, with the petticoat drawn up to the chest area. This arrangement might be ideal for reading on a wintry day, except that the reader is not likely to get more than a few pages in before sliding into a brasero-induced stupor, followed shortly by a solid, dreamless sleep, of the sort that commonly involves drool.
As opiates often will, braseros have been known to strain relationships. In some parts of the world significant others grow to resent certain sports seasons, certain of their partner’s friends, and/or certain controlled substances. In Andalucía, at least in winter, a significant other is more likely to resent the brasero. Not that a neglected partner would ever dream of unplugging, dismantling or otherwise sabotaging the brasero. He or she does not want to go without it anymore than the offending party does. A brasero-less flat in Andalucía is major. It is not a situation to flirt with, or even joke about.
Seriously.
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Charlie Geer is the author of the novel “Outbound: The Curious Secession of Latter-Day Charleston.” His work has appeared in Tin House, The Sun, Bloomsbury Magazine, and The Southern Review.
