This is my confession:

I pre-sliced the raw breast but kept meat together as though to conceal the deed. Then I placed the duck-slice package skin-side down on a skillet over medium heat and sprinkled salt on top. When the fat rendered and the skin crisped, I pulled the meat apart, quickly seared it, then removed it from pan. In the remaining fat, I browned a few slices of garlic. Then I stir-fried the cabbage with some black pepper. It wept and made a sauce from the pan juices. I like to add a touch of cornstarch and water to thicken the liquid. I make no apologies for this. When the sauce was thicker and once again translucent, I added the duck pieces and shook to coat everything.

I did all this and I freely admit it. I apologize only a little bit to my future self.

No, I did not eat dinner from the pan while standing at the stove. I am a thief not a barbarian.

Judge me if you will, but who will have the last laugh when suddenly everyone in high school is either a vampire, werewolf or witch? Where will you get your cured duck then?

After the legs are poached in their own fat, then packed in the same strained fat and stowed in a cool place to mature, there remains the juices of the salty-garlicky-ducky essences of the process. This is the stuff dreams are made of—very magic dreams you can dip your toast in.

Each day I try to learn more Italian words, but yesterday it was “cosce d’anatra” over and over again.

Today I learned the words for spoons and stove. I only know two verbs: to be and to have (which is sometimes also to be). I can only be or have a finite number of things–a list of clothing and furnishings, tools and food, colors and temperatures. And I can only be (or not be) and have (or not have) in the present.

Tomorrow brings more ducks and salt for cutting and curing and, one can only hope, more verbs.

It is customary in Harlem to transport them southwards the length of Manhattan after such a snowfall, preferably by train. Then one should board a boat towards the nearest Ikea. Once ashore find the house with the biggest fireplace. This house will no doubt be owned by an Argentine artist who will produce large pieces of grilled beef from said fireplace accompanied by scotch whiskey and red wines.

The pile of a hundred-or-so snowballs should be pulled from the freezer when the lights lower a bit, the music swells and the milonga begins.

(I can’t talk right now, I’m licking this spatula.)

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