Duck

Lovely morning we had before dawn, clear black sky littered with stars, Sirius never brighter, 48°F 77% light breeze, fall, autumn at last, thought it would never come, that sliding open 7H porch door would forever blast headache-hot, humid air in my face. But fall at last here the middle of November. In my mind fall came sooner, the first week of school, September after Labor Day, feet creeping slow to school, hands in pockets, cherishing a summer gone forever. A month from now we should be into fog season, a low-lying cloud on the Bay chill, damp mornings.  

Breakfast: two cups hot strong black and a warm slice of bread from EfM dinner last evening, toasted crisp and two thick pats butter. 

Enormous swarm of ducks, hundreds of ducks flying by low and settling a hundred yards offshore of 7H. They duck into the Bay, gone for qyite a few seconds, then pop back up. Thus, I reckon, “duck,” IDK.

Duck. My first Peking Duck was in a restaurant in Taiwan, fall 1965 or winter/spring 1966, on two months TDY. Crisp duck brought to table, waiter sliced off crispy skin for me to eat, then whisked the duck away to the kitchen, returning momentarily with far less than half the duck he took away. Lesson: if I order Peking Duck, nobody takes it to the kitchen.

What else comes to mind. Half a decade later, winter 1970, tripe with creamed onion at a British restaurant in Hong Kong. "I no think you like it, Sir." Lesson: never disregard your waiter's suggestion.

Wednesday lesson with self then: to remonstrate self about minding slow to speak if quick to anger. Self, also forehead scalped at derma clinic Tuesday morning. Pills against infection and tend bandage. Yuck.

DThos+


Pic pinched online, thanks Getty Images