Duck

Looking upon the picked-over wreckage, chin oiled and shining, I think duck is one of the finest meats known to man, and that a distant quack from a nearby pond is enough to make me feel hungry. Crispy skin, luxurious fat, plump livers, pink juicy breasts peaking through vinegared leaves, grilled hearts and a stock for the finest soups - my duck love is unconditional. So versatile and with so many treats to offer up, I eat the duck’s meats in the consolation that nothing will be wasted. I will never cook a duck carelessly, for a dead duck in feather is a sad thing. Its svelte plumage, head drooping as if in sleep, invokes in me a sense of tragedy not matched by the sight of, say, a dead pheasant.