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After everything she'd been through in the past century, it's no wonder that Marlene is drawn to the kitchens. It was kind of Geralt to offer her a place to stay, and kinder still to offer her a purpose here. She'll admit that the first few times she enjoyed a meal with their merry band of misfits, she cried. It's embarrassing, but no one else judged her for it. Nobody could really blame her. All those years, alone, unable to enjoy food or the company of others, took a toll on her. Even now, she still wakes up in a cold sweat some nights, plagued by nightmares of her ordeal.
Magically turning from a socialite to a monster to an old crone will do that to a person, she supposes.
She loves cooking. She loves to enjoy different spices and herbs, flavours and aromas, consistencies and textures. She loves buttery, flaky pastries and thick meats dripping with rich, savoury sauces and everything in between. The only thing she loves more than all of that is sharing it with others. Every time someone's eyes flutter shut in pleasure at one of her treats, every time someone begs her for a recipe, she is filled with a deep and overwhelming sense of pride. It is, perhaps, the best feeling in the world.
Marlene de Trastamara loves nothing more than sharing a meal with someone; nothing, perhaps, except learning new recipes. The witcher and his friends are a colourful bunch, but they all have one thing in common: an intense wanderlust. None of them seems happy staying in one place for too long, though "too long" is defined differently by all of them. For some, such as his poet, a season or two is as long as they can last. Others, such as the toymaker Dettlaff, won't get too restless for a few decades. Geralt's daughter visits often, but hardly stays for more than a week or two. There are countless others who come and go and come again, but they're all well-travelled, and they're all very sweet. Every one of them brings her new recipes or ingredients as often as they can. Of the recipes they've added to her repertoire, there is one that is her favourite to make, to eat, and to share: these delightful Temerian dumplings called pierogi.
They are heavenly, simple-yet-versatile little things, filling and nourishing and satisfying all at once. Marlene can't get enough of them. The process of making them, too, of working with the dough and creating the filling and putting both of those things together, is surprisingly meditative. As ridiculous as it might sound to anyone else, somehow, these Temerian treats are helping her heal from all the suffering she's endured.
Geralt helps her make them, sometimes. He offers to peel the potatoes for her, but she refuses; she isn't an invalid. A few minutes later, she complains that it's always the old woman's duty to peel the potatoes, and the witcher incredulously reminds her that he had offered to do it instead, but she wouldn't allow him. Silly witcher, she chides, complaining about peeling potatoes is an integral part of the process.
Usually, she doesn't like sharing her kitchen; and make no mistake, this is her space, now. She's been cooking here for, what, thirty-odd years? It shouldn't be possible, but then, neither should a lot of the things she's seen and experienced. Her best guess is that either this is a side-effect of the curse being lifted, or one of Geralt's sorceresses slipped something into her tea. Either way, she doesn't mind so much, because she has a lot of lost time that she'd like to make up for.
Ah, the rambling of an old woman. The point is that the kitchen is her space, and usually, she doesn't like to share it. In her experience, other people in her kitchen tend to only get in her way. Geralt is one of the few exceptions to the rule, and not because it's his house. She doesn't let Barnabas-Basil near the kitchen while she's baking until it's in the oven, after the Great Pie Fiasco of '87. Where most others only get in her way (and, in the cases of an unfortunate few, only get even more in her way the more helpful they try to be), Geralt is a surprisingly welcome addition. His decades of making those witcher concoctions, as well as his mutagenically-enhanced nose, make him the perfect culinary companion.
Her favourite thing to make with Geralt, of course, is apple tarts. Every autumn for almost as long as she's lived at Corvo Bianco, they make at least one batch of apple tarts together. Of course, they need to make enough for everyone, from Geralt's assorted houseguests to the vineyard workers, so "one batch" is nothing to sneeze at. That's fine by the both of them, though; they each enjoy it, or they wouldn't do it.
Of course, Marlene and Geralt don't only make apple tarts together. They make a wide range and variety of foods, including those Temerian "pierogies". (The plural is just pierogi, Geralt keeps telling her. One pieróg, many pierogi. She continues to ignore him as she makes her pierogies.) At some point, she admits how strangely cathartic it is for her, in a moment of weakness she can blame on her old age. Rather than judge her, he simply nods and replies that it helps him, too. Maybe that's part of why she doesn't mind sharing her kitchen with him, most days.
For some reason, people really enjoy her pierogies, even here in Toussaint. She gets constant requests for them from not just Corvo Bianco's guests and residents, but the local towns and villages surrounding the vineyard. Perhaps the people can really taste how much love she puts into the dumplings, how much care she puts into each fold and crease. Who can say? What matters is that people all over the Duchy want to enjoy her cooking. She's never felt more proud.
She can't even remember whose idea it was to start marketing them, but everyone agreed that she should give it a go. To share her cooking so far and wide, to have so many people willing to have her at their table in spirit, is such an overwhelming thought, but in such a good way she couldn't possibly begin to articulate it. An honest-to-goodness rock troll designs little boxes to pack them in, and she has to admit, this Trollololo is a better artist than half of the "great names" in the duchy. His writing skills, however, are a bit lacking. The poor dear can't spell her name; honestly, he can hardly say it. He's taken to calling her Mrs. T, though she's never been married. She can't say she minds, really.
Marlene never thought that her life would end up this way. However, as she sells her first few boxes of "Mrs. T's Pierogies", she can't imagine it being any better.
