buttering

Drunk hands.
Steady.
Sure.

They had been drinking for a while and their eyes showed it. A rising interest in food was another clue; although the French was too thick for my ears, communication is rarely about language alone. The heavier one, thick in ankle wrist and eyebrow, seemed most committed to the prospect as he slowly sawed a baguette in half. A length-wise and labourious process, using only a pocketknife. Knowing his own limitations, buttering was left to his friend.

Tall and slender to the point of being long, the other Quebecois sat on the stairs that formed a miniature amphitheatre around the corner-mounted fireplace, reveling in the dual glows from without and within. His hands revealed no tremors as he took bread, butter and knife in hand, not interested in the toast himself but seemingly pleased to be involved in the process.

Not a spreading blade in a classic sense, the knife peeled the butter back one thin layer at a time, before being used to gently smear it into the crenellations and holes of the bread.

Slow. Deliberate. Safe thumbs and fingers.

A small ritual, executed this time at a hostel in France.

Before?

Perhaps around a campfire in the forests of Quebec, with a different flame holding back cold. Also the darkness. Made solid by the trees that melt into the night beyond the fire’s glow. Maybe just a fire pit. In a backyard. Or around a kitchen’s wood-stove?

The ease of the act spoke of habituity, habitual action, pleasant memory. Wherever it had happened before, the twin glows had been there. A slight grin on Long’s face hinted at times before, irretrievable if he had been asked to tell.

Drunk hands. Happy. Steady. Sure.

Finished and placed on a metal grate, the bread was quickly seared and flipped for all around toasting. The meal was complete and shared around. Long decided to have some after all.

The quiet confidence and pleasure spoke about more than a man getting a snack. A small ritual had been conducted, bread to toast and butter to spread. It wasn’t religious, but maybe just the slightest bit spiritual. Order had been brought forth out of madness, bread rendered tastier, actions and patterns from different times and places brought to bear in an ancient French city. And of course, one should never discount the silent rapture of a drunk man munching a snack before bed.