I want you to know the Quirky family exhibited insane amounts of self-control last night.
Gertie, Mr. Quirky and I were all waiting with little pockets of drool forming in the corners of our mouths as the savory aroma of the melting duck fat wafted through our home.
Gertie sat by her bowl for a while, just in case any of the delicious meat might show up.
Mr. Quirky grabbed a paper towel, just in case a juicy duck leg was placed in front of him. (We’re not fancy enough to keep official napkins in the house. The words napkin and paper towel are interchangeable in my book.)
I paced. I fussed. I read. I stuffed my face with Chinese food. Anything to keep my mind off the crisply duck skin sizzling in my oven. (But I didn’t do any laundry. Note this fact.)
Finally, the legs were released from captivity.
I carefully drained the precious nectar of duck fat into a container. Then I waited. Waited because my recipe said to. Waited because I knew nothing else to do.
Finally, it was time.
But what happened next shocked even me.
I carefully shredded the meat into a container and put the container in the fridge.
(There may have been a few nibbles here and there, a drop in Gertie’s bowl and a few pieces of crispy skin and savory meat taken to Mr. Quirky.)
But for the most part, the delicious duck meat was put away.
To be continued…