The Moro roast duck was duck as usual which is to say, it threw off epic quantities of fat while retaining a puny amount of grayish meat that clung tightly to the brittle bones. To make the quince sauce, you remove most of the fat from the pan drippings, add sherry and quince paste and cook until you have a sweet-tart gravy. By coincidence, I had also baked the Moro flatbreads (stellar!!) and when I composed a sandwich with the pillowy bread, crackly skin, meat, and jammy sauce, it tasted like Peking duck. Only missing were slivered green onions and chopsticks.
My mother has just told me I can't post a macabre chicken story that unfolded last night: "People don't want to read about things like that. You've lost enough chickens, no one wants to know about how you lost this one. Write about a beautiful baby, or a Christmas tree lane."
A Christmas tree lane?
I don't know any stories about Christmas tree lanes, but she's right about withholding the chicken story, at least on Christmas Eve. Plus, we haven't actually lost this hen. I practiced some amateur veterinary medicine and if she pulls through, it will be a heartwarming tale of a brave little bird and a sadistic raccoon. If she dies, maybe I will save it for Halloween.
I just had my mother proofread this post. She said, "What are you talking about that you don't know stories about a Christmas tree lane? We go to one every year and we're going tonight. The man who has 250,000 lights and brings in snow? The toboggans? The people who walk up and down the street and sit out in front of their houses and meet and greet? It's just charming!"
She seemed hurt that I didn't instantly jump on the Christmas tree lane story, but now I have and you know what? She's right. It's much nicer than the chicken story.