Four duck carcasses in all their hearty, meaty, manchon-y, foie gras-y glory were ready to be cut into place for now and future meals for the family. The foie was done. Whew, that was easy. That came de-foied and ready for action. The four duck carcasses awaited my attention. Olivia and Carlos of La Ferme de Roussa and duck chopper upper extraodinaire, taught me ( and others ) how to cut up your duck. Yet when faced, quite literally, with the four carcasses, I forgot the lesson. I knew the pieces to render, but how I got there took four tries. By the sixth breast, I think my magret might look like a magret. Even though I stumbled my way through, the taste of the duck was not compromised.

The confit has been bubbling away after an overnight salting. Otto is drooling. He’s a confit man. Tosca has been her natural family supportive self making sure that things in the kitchen are ticking and dropping off the counter away nicely. She also helped tremendously with the duck head removal. They say, you can cook darn near everything from a duck carcass, though a dog will rumor otherwise.

While Z and I were away delivering meat in Bordeaux, the kids started to rhyme. It all started with Brent ending a sentence involving “calm day” and Otto responding with “Comté.” Anybody want a peanut? It was on. Tonight, a few syllables short of a parenting opportunity, Lucy spat out this lovely: “I’d love to eat duck, but FIRE TRUCK!” Thank you, Michael, for being a potty-mouth thesaurus.