Nosh: Festive Food - Perfectly Cooked Crispy Duck

Festive Food - Perfectly Cooked Crispy Duck

I almost made fresh pasta for Thanksgiving this year. As I was alone all day, I thought it would be a practical way to keep myself occupied. If it wasn't for the lone egg in the egg bowl, I wouldn't have walked to the store for eggs ... and I wouldn't have seen the fresh, young ducks for sale at the supermarket. And that is how my fresh pumpkin ravioli with sage butter turned into a perfectly roasted duck.

I'd never had roasted goose or duck before I came to Germany. This is the festive fare here. The first time I ate roasted goose was at my first Christmas. Chris' dad was in charge of the roasting ... and when it came to the table, it was a rich mahogany brown, juices running at the first slice. Served alonside were snowballs of mashed potato, called Kartoffelklösse, and braised red cabbage (Rot Kraut!).

My menu, though less traditional, included one perfectly cooked crispy duck, my addition to this Festive Food Blogging event:

Red onion and green olive manchego mini-tartlets

Baby arugula with goats cheese and provencal-mushroom-oil vinaigrette

"Perfectly cooked crispy duck" with spiced mango chutney

Pear tartlets with bittersweet chocolate

You can find the recipe for Perfectly Cooked Crispy Duck in Jamie Oliver's new book "Cook with Jamie". Basically, you bash sage leaves and salt (I used fleur de sel) together in a mortar and pestle, then rub it all over the skin. Stuff the bird with more sage leaves and orange halves. Tuck it into a bed of veggies and roast for about 2 hours. Serve with roasted veggies and the chutney. He used plum, I used mango.

Technorati tag festive food fair

A little note for Mom...
...written on November 23, 2006 - Thanksgiving Day

First of all, I miss you so so much. I ache with just wanting to hug you again. I can't believe that it's been a year since you died. In fact, I still can't grasp that you're gone.

Sad things. I still expect to hear your voice when I call home. Sometimes I stand outside at night and talk into the wind, asking you for some sign that you hear me, but there's nothing. Sometimes when I wake up in the morning I don't remember that you're gone, so I keep the mass card from your funeral on my nightstand, that way I won't forget for too long. It's the journey back to remembering that I hate, the sick feeling of being punched in my stomach, the feeling you get when you've been robbed.

You know the tiny spoons you gave me the last time I saw you? I use them all the time. They're perfect for cooking, for tasting, for getting capers out of a jar. I meant to tell you that. The quilted gingerbread potholder you made for me hangs in the kitchen - with the little button eyes. He's so cute. And the kiwi-coloured le creuset grill pan - my first piece - that you surprised me with, also hangs on the wall. I used it for the first time when Dad came to visit me this summer. I grilled lamb cutlets. He loved them.

Things I wish I'd told you more: I really liked you...I was proud of you. You were the #1 Chef to me. You were my food life-line...thank you for fielding my cooking calls, whether I was panicked, wanting advice, or just looking to impress you with what I'd done. I will always think of you and everything you taught me.

I hope you know ... I was coming home to see you. I was just too late.

You died at 5:52 a.m, did you know? I was sitting in a restaurant in Germany, having lunch, while you took your last breath. I can't forgive myself for that. Today, a year later, at 5:52 a.m (your time) I lowered all the blinds...I took out your pictures, lit a few candles, held your glove and your scarf tightly, and clenched my eyes against the passing of that minute. So I could be with you, if you needed it. I hope you felt me there.

The remainder of that day passed like a dream. I walked in the forest until my legs were numb with cold and then walked to the supermarket and bought a duck to cook that night. It was Thanksgiving, after all, and I felt I should cook something. The rest, well ... you know.