Marie-Douce's hands are dusted with flour. She says a happy belly fills the heart. Marie-Douce's hands have so many stories to tell.
They've kneaded, folded, whisked, mixed, and candied peels in syrup. They've buttered, sifted, stemmed, steeped, reduced sauces to desired consistency. They've simmered, preserved, browned, blanched, poured into the centre of various things and peeled down to the flesh of others.
Marie-Douce's spectre, her secret, is simply sugar.
Her hands have created a language. They have the magic touch, as you can imagine. They'll patch up anyone's mood, clearing out life's little troubles with Marie-Douce's cookie cutter. They can soothe inner struggles and may even rekindle faintest glows of embers.
On the table, a squadron of perfectly aligned, open-jawed glass jars, waiting for the sublime drink to be poured. On the stove, a deep, 10-pound cooking pot, the cauldron Marie-Douce uses as would any witch-alchemist, it's her pool of the gods, slowly scheming her creations.
Outside, September is fading away. The cook has spent her Sunday picking tartish fruit; there, behind the bare trees pleading toward the south. When Marie-Douce goes to fill her bucket, nothing exists anymore but peatland. It's an old white plastic bucket, with no handle, and whose battered rim bears the marks of the late Toto's canines. She's been carrying it around for so many autumns that the trips have cracked the bottom. But Marie-Douce is superstitious.
Here, hardy, lavish wreaths appear; especially for her. Adorned with red beads on an endless rosary, clear pearls from a broken necklace in the dune. They're like small balloons; so round and shiny they could float up to the sky. But they won't escape her. Her hands dig through the grass and free the prettiest ones. With the thumb, they start by touching the gems, as one would stroke a cheek. The berry is smooth and firm. Marie-Douce's hands brush off a few grains of sand clinging to the fruit's peel and they collect the first scatterings at the bottom of the bucket. And so begins the harvest. As does the legendary jam. Flying over the evergreen foliage, one hand buries itself into the branchlets and resurfaces, pressing the index finger and the middle finger along the twigs. The balls detach and roll until they've filled Marie-Douce's palm.
With this new gathering, in her gnarled and wrinkled hands, so much distilled sap has accumulated. So many repeated two-way treks through venous paths for this seasoned pastry chef. Her knotty, scratched hands, studded with melted smiles; her speckled hands much like her extensive cookbook. And if you look a little further, you understand they are somewhat of a well in which one throws a wish.
If Marie-Douce kneels, it's not that she's getting tired. She's giving thanks to the earth. It's a joy like no other to forage through her provided treasures. To borrow from the bountiful shelf of blessings. Blessings that will fill up the cupboards all winter long. Hers and those of everyone she loves.
Marie-Douce's hands are full of love.
