MOTHER'S FINGERS TWITCH as she makes her calculations. Into the tub they bathe in on Saturdays, she stirs enough ingredients for one hundred tarts. Four sacks of flour, a winter's worth of lard. Begrudgingly, a fistful of salt.
Mother kneads the face. Jean-Luc, the legs. Beatrice dimples the torso. And Mimi, the youngest, shapes the two lush arms.
Her body grows golden with an egg yolk glaze.
Papa's woolen nightcap goes on last.
Suddenly, Mother remembers. She conceals the hands beneath the coverlet.