Nom-nom-nom

This house is officially a poultry processing factory today. I was going to do some of it yesterday, but Sean phoned with instructions to meet him in the pub, and you know how that goes: I barely had time to butcher the ducks, slap the breasts into the freezer for later currying and salt & herb the legs for overnight flavouring, before I had to go bouncing off to get drunk.

Today, then, the legs are in a dishful of goose fat in the bottom of a very slow oven, becoming confit in an appropriately leisurely fashion; in the top of the same slow oven, all the fattiest bits of the ducks are rendering up their fat - more than a pint so far - and at the same time creating lovely crispy munchy residual skin-things (duck crackling, I suppose, or duck scratchings - including the pygostyles, or, what, the bishop's nose? Not parson's and not pope's, so I guess bishop's...); and in the slow cooker what was left is turning into a gorgeous rich duck-stock, with onion and ginger and celery and carrot and such. It shall be soup hereafter, with cabbage and noodles. Quite soon, in fact, as I have to go the theatre to see modern dance tonight so a quick early supper is on the cards.

Meantime, I've opened a bottle of wine and am going to write another page or so of this increasingly unexpected story, while I nibble on the odd pygostyle if they're crunchy yet...