Chris bought a frozen duck from the grocery store earlier this week and put it in the fridge to thaw for last night’s dinner. I have never roasted a duck before, so I spent more than an hour searching for recipes. After an exhausting search, I found a recipe that promised an irresistibly crisp and tender duck. I even found a recipe for a caramelized onion and fig relish to accompany it (ironically, the Hero doesn’t carry baking soda, but it carries fig preserve. Go figure!)
On top of all that, I read an article, with step-by-step instructions, on how to prepare a raw duck for roasting – unwrap the bird from its packaging, remove the innards, cut off any extra skin, rinse, dry, and scald with boiling water. How simple is that? Just like a Thanksgiving turkey.
As directed, I removed the duck from the packaging, and, in the process of turning it over to locate the cavity, two grotesquely gnarled feet jutted out between my hands, and a long, gangly neck and waxen head flopped down. After losing my composure (which Ally happily videotaped as it ensued), I directed her to rewrap the duck and put it back in the fridge for Chris to tackle after work. However, she was having way too much fun with it.
Needless to say, we ate brats for dinner.