Mitsima squeezed and patted, stroked and scraped; and there at last it stood, in shape the familiar water pot of Malpais, but creamy white instead of black, and still soft to the touch.
The minute-old-one would still feel like a hot potato, while the half-hour frozen spud would have cooled well below the skin — you'd have to poke all the way to the center to feel its residual warmth.