The Morel of the Story
“Do you like Duck Confit?” “Never tried it, but I love duck.” Well, I love…
Figs wrapped in prosciutto with a chunk of Purple Haze goat cheese hidden inside, grilled until the figs were oozing and the prosciutto crispy. That was our appetizer. Then came the Duck Confit, with a spring salad (half of which picked from the garden outside) and fresh morels, sauteed in the duck fat. Oh, heavenly (the meal, too). The figs had just come off the grill, the duck was crisping in the pan, the extra duck fat on low on the stove ready to fill the little nooks and crannies of those seasonal mushrooms, salad already plated. I love the mise en place. But I wasn’t prepared for the welcome at the front door that took my breath and time away. He looked up and asked how the smoked duck was coming along. “Smoked?!?” I glanced into a kitchen filled with smoke and nearly had heart failure. I had said I could cook, but this wasn’t looking very convincing. The Cuisinart pan with duck fat had heated up a bit much (no snide comments there) and was now smoking to high heaven. We opened up the kitchen door, windows, turned on the fan and laughed. I took the pan outside, tossed it into the rosemary bush (nothing kills that) while muttering a few choice words, only to turn around and see him watching with a huge grin.
The smoke dissipated, the Duck Confit was delectable, the salad crisp and perfect on a warm summer’s evening. The morels of the story? They made a fine addition to scrambled eggs the following morning…