“What did you bake in the horno the day it was blessed?” asked several friends who could not make it to the first-firing fiesta.  Well. . . nothing that day as the fire must burn for several hours.
 
The first horno baking day took place a dozen days after the horno was blessed and fired.  Early in the morning, I was able to get the horno fire going with just one match.  Friends started trickling in.
 
Dexter noticed that the horno had developed a long narrow crack and quickly repaired it with clay left over from the building process.  I decided then to keep a bucket of clay on hand to mud inevitable future cracks.
 
Back indoors, my kitchen was busy with vast amounts of bizcochito dough being formed.  Soon a bake-off ensued between friends Analinda and Dexter, considered by many to be Abiquiu’s premier bizcochito baker, whose generously sized recipe yields more than 18 dozen cookies!  Linda’s more modestly sized recipe produced great-tasting results as did Dexter’s. Though the ingredients of the two recipes varied, both resulted in the unmistakable bizcochito texture and taste so beloved here in northern New Mexico.  Later, unable to decide which was “better,” we declared the bake-off a draw.
 
Instead of using wool to gauge the horno’s heat, we stuck a 21st-century oven thermometer into the middle of the horno and discovered that the heat had reached more than 600 degrees F., which informed us that the horno only needs two hours of firing time, thus saving on fuel provided by precious and sweet-smelling cedar.  After letting the fire cool down a bit, we put in the cookies and sealed the horno opening and smoke hole with the heavy door and plug fashioned by friend Bonifacio.
 
Analinda made three loaves of bread following a las Golondrinas recipe she had learned while serving as a docent there with husband Napoleon.
I was so busy running around that I forgot to punch down my bread dough, so the second rising was shorter than it should have been and the bread suffered a bit.  Friend Dawn made a delicious non-yeasted cornbread with green chile.  While two chickens were roasting indoors, life-long friend and great cook Jean, visiting from Illinois, steamed broccoli and made mashed potatoes and gravy for our early-afternoon repast.
 
When the six loaves of bread came out of the horno, they were placed on a large wooden board in the center of the dining-room table.  After the morning’s work, we were ready for food, especially for the horno bread, which we slathered with lots of buter—so totally unnecessary but so unbelievably delicious.  Before the meal ended, we decided that the next firing would find us making pizza, which we surmised would develop a great crust in a 600-degree F. horno.
 
Many do-it-yourself pizzas have been subsequently baked in this “most beautiful horno in northern New Mexico” as many people have described it.  Bakers included students on a field trip who were taught about horno building by Dexter while their foil-covered inside-out apples were roasting.  They enjoyed this dessert first while assembling their pizzas.

October 8, 2010   —   Early in October—on the most beautiful Autumn day in Northern New Mexico up to that point—friend Maggie and I went to El Rancho de las Golondrinas, the living history museum south of Santa Fe, for a class in baking bread in an horno.  Among the many things we learned that day was the method of judging the horno’s heat using a piece of wool that gets toasted at 350 degrees F.
 
On the way back to Abiquiu, I bought tools for tending my horno.  The horno blessing and first-firing fiesta were scheduled for the next day, a Friday morning, which started in sharp contrast to the previous beautiful day.  The early-morning darkness was punctuated by the sound of pounding rain, obviating the need for the alarm clock to ring.  “Oh no, now we’ll have to party indoors!”  I was relieved that the rain, usually so welcome, stopped just before I left for 7 a.m. Mass at Santo Tomas; the sky, however, remained leaden.  I happily walked out of Mass into a blue-canopied world.  “Party outdoors after all.  Great!”
 
I made a quick stop at Bode’s general store to pick up three dozen previously ordered tamales (pork with red) and other items.  Four car-loads of friends were waiting when I arrived home, and everyone pitched in to carry in groceries and get set up outdoors, which was drying rapidly.
 
Into the kitchen oven went a rum-raisin bread pudding made earlier that morning from two loaves of bread from our las Golondrinas baking the previous day.  The three remaining loaves were set out on a breadboard with a knife and butter so that everyone could help themselves.
 
The fire was laid by Dexter and Jacob Trujillo, who built the horno with granddaughter Haley.  I decorated one corner of the horno with a tableaux of goodies generously given me by our las Golondrinas teacher—a colorful weaving, gourds, red chiles, a string of dry sliced zucchini, a head of garlic, Indian corn, a small wreath of cota stems, and a head of sorghum.
​
The final touches were the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe given me years ago by friends Sandra and Bonifacio, who made the heavy door of the horno, and a retablo of San Pascal made for me as a house-warming gift by my neighbor Alfonso, who was in attendance with his wife Ninfa, and the lovely, lacy iron cross given me as a house-warming gift by daughter Lisa and son-in-law Doug, Haley’s parents.
 
Father Marshall from Santo Tomas arrived saying he had looked for a specific horno blessing, but, finding none, created his own.  It was perfect.  Dexter lit the horno fire, which quickly incensed and blessed us with the sweet fragrance of cedar.  Champagne  corks popped.  The warm bread pudding, steamed tamales, coffee, and a fruit salad were brought outdoors, and our horno blessing and first-firing was underway.

Watching a flock of migrating birds rest and avail themselves of Abiquiu hospitality in the large juniper next to the large horno in my back yard brought back these Abiquiu anecdotes.
 
“Grandma, you said that when you get a house in New Mexico, you wanted to build an horno; you now have a house,” said then-13-year-old Haley, who with my entire family came to celebrate Thanksgiving in my new (and hopefully) final home.  “I believe I said that I wanted an horno built, not that I wanted to build one,” I responded.  “Well, I want to build it for you.”  Astonished, I said, “Really, you want to build my horno?”  When she affirmed this with a determined nod, I replied, “Well, come next summer and build it then.”
 
At the beginning of the following August, Haley called and said that she would arrive in a week thanks to her California grandparents driving her on their way to Denver and that she was ready to build my horno.  She may have been, but I wasn’t.  Settling into a house and taking things out of storage took up most of my time and, frankly, I did not think about the horno.  I poured a cup of coffee and reached for that week’s edition of the Rio Grande Sun, trying not to panic.  What did I see but a front-page story with a picture of Abiquiu native and my dear friend Dexter Trujillo with a group of teenagers he was teaching to build an horno at the Espanola Farmers Market—from scratch, i.e., he had them make the adobe bricks.
 
Breathing a sigh of relief and thanking my ever-present guardian angel for a quick answer to my prayer, I thought who better than Dexter to oversee my horno project?  After all, he built his first horno when he was just 16 and sometime later was invited by the Smithsonian Institution to come to Washington, D.C. and build an horno there, which he did (but that’s a story for another day).  I immediately called Dexter and told him I needed him to teach Haley, now 14, how to build an horno.
 
At first, he wasn’t sure he had the time as the Farmers Market project was not yet complete.  “How long does it take to build an horno?“ I asked, and he replied, “Three days and several more for it to dry out before use.”
​
Relieved, I replied, “You only work on the Espanola project one day a week; that leaves six other days.”  So, Dexter agreed and supplied me with the number of adobes needed—both the rectangular ones for the base and the curved ones for the dome—which I purchased the next day in Alcade and which were delivered before Haley and her grandparents arrived.  We enjoyed a festive dinner that evening, and Haley’s grandparents, Ethan and Mary, headed for Denver after breakfast the following morning, saying, “Haley, we can’t wait to see your horno when we return.”
 
Dexter and his brother Jacob arrived with a well-worn wheelbarrow and other tools for mixing the mud needed to mortar the adobes.  Excited, Haley assured them that, despite her small size, she was strong and ready and able to learn how to build an horno.  Dexter told her that she would have to help dig clay, chop straw (on hand), and mix them.  So, she did, never complaining about the work or the heat.
 
Dexter showed her how to prepare the ground with rocks to underlie the base.  While he measured the base, Haley and Jacob brought rocks to the building site near a giant juniper.  That first day, they laid and mortared a perfectly square base, carefully finishing and leveling the top by troweling a layer of mud, on which Dexter scribed a circle, simply using a stick, string, and a stone.  The base was now ready for the next day’s build.
 
Day two had the trio laying five-courses of curving adobes to start the dome.  The brothers picked up Haley and put her inside so that she could mud within while they smoothed the outside.  Every now and then, she would pop up, prairie-dog style, saying, “More mud please.”  On the third day, I had to go to Santa Fe and so did not witness the closing of the dome, but I asked Dexter to top it off with a sprig of juniper in imitation of east coast and midwestern high rises being topped off with a pine tree to celebrate when the roof finally closed in the building.  He did.

Dexter not only taught Haley how to build an horno, he also taught her a great deal about northern New Mexico’s history and culture.
 
First, he explained that, while an horno is often referred to as an Indian oven, it originated in North Africa and was brought to Spain by the Moors.  The Spaniards then brought the horno to the New World, and it traveled to the New Mexico Territory via settlers from Old Mexico.  The Native Americans saw the practicality of this easy-to-build oven and, having abundant clay, built many in which to bake bread, meat, and fowl and to dry corn, and, so, newcomers to the territory called them Indian ovens.  The name persists.
 
From Dexter, Haley also learned about New Mexico’s acequias, our system of irrigation, which also originated in North Africa but was adapted to our state’s agriculture.  The word ‘acequia,’ Dexter explained, derives from the Arabic word ‘as-saqiya’ based on the word ‘saqa’ meaning ‘to give to drink,’ which is what acequias do—give water to fields.  Acequias were a means for settlers and Indians to work together for the common good.
 
Haley and I were most fascinated by Dexter’s story of his ancestor Jesús Archuleta, who, at the age of 11, was abducted by Arizona-based Indians raiding Abiquiu—a common occurrence then; animals were also abducted.  On the way to Arizona, his grandfather was injured and developed an infection in one leg, preventing his walking.  Considered useless to his captors, he was left to die on the side of the road.  He had sense to chew on juniper berries in an attempt to live.  By and by, a lone Indian came along, and, like the biblical Good Samaritan, gave Jesús food and water and tended to his wound.  Then, however, he took Dexter’s ancestor to Arizona, where he lived for seven years, when a Spanish soldier traveling from California stopped at the Indian encampment, saw Archuleta, and said to him, “You don’t look like the others here,” to which the now-18-year-old Jesús replied in Spanish, “I am not from here.”

The soldier asked him from where he came and was told, “Abiquiu.”  The soldier said, “That is my destination (Abiquiu then was the furthermost southwest military outpost of the Spanish Empire).  In the morning, you and I will leave here together for Abiquiu.”  When the captive said that the natives may not agree to letting him go, the soldier said that, oh yes, they would.  They did.  Arriving finally in Abiquiu, the soldier asked Archuleta to indicate his house and then knocked on its door.  Archuleta’s mother opened the door, and—when she saw her son whom she thought she would never see again—she fainted.
 
One might say that if it had not been for life-preserving juniper berries, Dexter would not have been born to tell this tale.
 
Dexter Trujillo has many tales to tell us about Abiquiu.  He also has had a long-held dream of building a cluster of hornos on the Abiquiu plaza for community use in baking and perhaps roasting our beloved green chile.  Hopefully, Abiquiu can help Dexter realize his dream.  We could join him in the horno building, and, in the process, we probably could coax him to tell us a few more Abiquiu anecdotes.
 
Afterword:  Haley—who already in 2010 dreamed of being a filmmaker—documented every aspect of this ambitious horno build by taking countless pictures.  Now 22, she is seeking her dream after graduating magna cum laude from Santa Fe University of Art and Design with a bachelor’s degree of fine arts in film production.
 
Haley and her grandparents could not enjoy the first use of the horno as it had not dried out sufficiently to fire and use and as they had to head back to San Diego for Haley’s start of school.
 
Shortly thereafter, one lovely October morning, Father Marshall, then pastor of St. Thomas the Apostle Parish, came to bless my horno (having had to make up a prayer because he could not find one – later he had to make up another prayer for blessing the new bridge over El Rito Creek).
Seventeen other people joined us for the horno blessing and first firing.  When the sweet smoke of burning cedar immediately wafted through the smoke hole incensing all present, we cheered the successful horno build.  A dozen days later, we held another party when my friends brought food to bake in the horno.
 
The year was 2010, and, that Christmas, I went to San Diego to spend the Holidays with Lisa, my daughter, and Doug, my son-in-law, and Haley, and her grandparents.  When we opened presents Christmas Eve, Haley said, “Grandma, you get to open the first present” and handed me a beautifully wrapped package which contained a book this 14-year-old created with pictures she had taken of the process and of other places in Abiquiu.  She titled it Building the Horno and subtitled it Summer 2010 and had it printed and hard-bound by Shutterfly.  As I leafed through this treasure, I had to be careful not to let my tears wet the pages.  When Haley visited me the following summer, we augmented the book with stories I had recorded subsequently; then I had the book reprinted for everyone mentioned therein.
 
Editor’s Note:  The subsequent stories—Horno Blessing and First-Firing Fiesta and First Horno Baking Day--will follow in subsequent issues in this on-line Abiquiu News).

​Hilda Joy