Every year I like to try to do a little thanksgiving dinner for just us five. I admit sometimes this means grabbing a precooked rotisserie chicken and all the fixings in “just add water” type form. But this year Oliver saw ducks at the grocery store and proclaimed he wanted to try one. So a duck I decided to make.
(You guys, why in tarnation do they come with the neck and inner organs? I’ll get back to that later.)
A couple weeks ago I bought myself a really cute apron with candy stripes in pink, green, grey and a metallic gold stripe. I put it on to show Beau and he said, “Now you have to bake!” I promptly put the cinnamon rolls I bought at the bakery in the microwave and presented them to the kids. If I don’t act the part at least I can feel it!
I would love nothing more than to be the type of mom who bakes all sorts of delights and has a sparkling kitchen and reads fairytales to her children before bed every night. I’ve gotten past the delusion that I will level up to that someday. I’m more of a buy-a-fun-cereal, “find a bowl in the dishwasher!”, help to find the Korok mask in Legend of Zelda kind of mom.
But every once in a while I’m like, “yeah I can totally cook a duck with no stress, no problem.” ELLL OH ELLLLLLLL.
So first of all I have this serious problem with uncooked meat. I hate it so much, you guys. I hate that drippy oozy blood, the very idea of a carcass, the thought of salmonella. I try my very very hardest never to touch it. I won’t go into detail, but I have a system. But for some reason every time I go to throw the container the meat came in, the garbage is FULL. And I tell myself to remember to empty in next time. (And never do). So I had a container of the NECK, gizzard, and liver and some other thing, I don’t know what, to throw away and only had room for the styrofoam container and cellophane in the garbage. So I decided to put the body parts of the deceased into the sink disposal.
There are moments in life where time seems to stop, and this was one of them. At around that same time, or just before, my dad walked in through the door to pick up Oliver for a sleep over (Yes, the Oliver who wanted to eat the duck…I’m terrible at planning these things to perfection). My dad wanted to try to find some ski boots or something in the basement and I freaked. The basement is particularly messy right now. Picture the medieval muddle of dishes in sword in the stone, turn it into laundry and brick-a-brack, and cover it with snail slime and spiders…that’s my basement right now.
My hands were filled with bloody cellophane and duck neck and I was blocking the stairs to the basement yelling for Beau to please come find whatever ski thing my dad wanted. As I lured my dad away showing him my cute new apron or some other diversion, Beau whisked past to say there was a message on my phone. I think this was when I put the duck innards into the sink and washed one hand to look at the message. The message was “YOU HAVE TESTED POSITIVE FOR STREP THROAT” which I read out loud, said, “Oh no!” and turned on the sink disposal…
DUCK NECK BITS FLEW EVERYWHERE. That drippy bloody oozy stuff landed in my hair, all over my new apron (at least I was wearing one? heh heh) and all over everything in my once in a blue moon clean kitchen. This was when my dad chose to say,
“Bridget, is something wrong?”
I turned to him with that look babies have when they fall and you’re not sure if they’re gonna burst into tears or laugh..and just started laughing. And despite being covered in duck blood he gave me a hug.
I’m not perfect, there’s no such thing. And even though I know the idea of being a well-adjusted adult is entirely unattainable, I’ll still strive, with a big dose of laughter because every once in a while I get it right. Which is what came next, if only fleetingly.
With fresh antibiotics in my system, a somehow delicious and beautifully roasted duck on the table with all the pre-made fixings (thanks Met Market), and without my Dad seeing the basement, four of us sat down to a sweet thanksgiving dinner. It was a tiny moment of domestic bliss. Until someone, I think it was Finn, said,
“We’re eating Donald Duck.”
Well, there’s always next year!