Gratitude… And How To Season A Duck
A/N: If you stand on your head, squint, and look sideways, you might be able to recognize this as a kinda sorta Thanksgiving story. This is meant to amuse, not to offend.
No ducks were harmed during the writing of this story.
This story is dedicated in gratitude to InkedAlchemist and ForeverJulie. My thanks to you both.
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Maria struggled to catch her breath as she glared at the freshly plucked duck resting innocently on the kitchen counter. They had done battle: feathers had flown, and the beast had put up a good fight, slamming into her abominably soiled apron several times. She had finally bested it, although not before it had slipped off the counter and slid a good six feet before she had managed to chase it down and grab it by the leg. She hoped the blessing she had flung up to heaven would protect them from the filth it had picked up, then decided that washing it again might be a good idea.
She shuddered to think how she would have fared if the duck had still been alive and she'd had to kill it. Although, as she continued to eye the bird warily, she could easily picture herself grabbing it by the neck and…
St. Francis of Assisi, pray for me!
Feeling remorseful, she reflected that perhaps there was more than one reason that she had not been destined to become a nun.
She washed her hands one more time and began to search the wooden cupboards for the seasonings she would need. Having never cooked in this kitchen before, she was unfamiliar with where everything was stored. She supposed that she should have had one of the servants stay behind to help, but she had been so eager and determined to cook for her new family. She had never been an exceptional cook, but she reminded herself that she was adequate enough. And she had never poisoned anyone, as far as she knew.
Wishing that she felt a bit more confident about that last thought, she wondered briefly if she should reconsider her plan. But then she spotted the salt, pepper and other condiments in the very next cabinet she opened and took it as a sign from God that she should continue on her course.
As she reached up for the spices and condiments in the cupboard, she felt a pair of small arms circle her waist. Already suspecting who it was, she looked down to see pink sleeves and small hands, and she turned around to find Marta grinning up at her. The girl was so quiet; Maria had not heard her enter the kitchen. She hugged the girl tightly. Of all the children, Marta seemed to need the warmth of her embrace most of all and sought her out often.
"What are you doing here, Marta? Why aren't you playing with your brothers and sisters?" She released Marta and reached out to smooth her hair.
"Father told us that you were preparing dinner for tonight. I wanted to see what you were doing."
"Well, as you can see," she said, narrowing her eyes at the duck as she pointed toward it, "I'm about to season the duck."
"But why are you preparing dinner? Isn't that what the servants do?"
"Ordinarily, yes, Marta. But you must remember that not everyone has servants. I didn't, not for a very long time. And at the Abbey, we always took turns helping in the kitchen. It was a form of service, a way to show our love for our Sisters."
Marta frowned, considering Maria's words. Maria smiled and gave her time, knowing the girl liked to work things out for herself.
"Is that why you're preparing dinner? To show your love for us?"
Maria took Marta's chin in her hand and bent down to kiss her forehead.
"Yes, Marta. And to express how grateful I am for being part of this family."
"Oh. Then may I help you, Mother? I want to express my gratefulness too."
"You may," she replied, engulfing Marta in her arms once more before directing her to wash her hands and put on an apron. She wrapped the apron strings twice around Marta's waist before tying them at her back.
"Are you quite certain that apron is big enough for her? It barely reaches her feet."
Maria looked up as Georg entered the kitchen. His words had been directed at her, but he was looking at Marta, smiling. His presence instantly made the room feel smaller, cozier; somehow he always managed to fill the empty spaces wherever he went. Or at least he did for her.
"Father, I'm helping Mother with dinner. We're having duck." Maria was always charmed by Marta's subtly evident enthusiasm and joy.
"So I see. I hope you're prepared to hold the duck firmly. You wouldn't want it to fly away before you've had a chance to season it."
His expression and tone of voice were completely serious. Maria could see the confusion on Marta's face, and she frowned at her husband.
"Father, the duck can't fly away."
"No, of course not. Not if you don't allow it. And not if you know how to season it properly."
"But the duck is dead, Father. It can't fly." Marta eyed the bird suspiciously and turned to Maria. "The duck is dead, isn't it, Mother?"
Maria caught Georg laughing silently and threw an exasperated look at him before answering Marta. There were times when his teasing made him seem just like one of the children.
"Yes, Marta, the duck is dead. Your father is merely teasing you."
"Oh. You shouldn't do that, Father. It's juv'nile."
This time Maria had trouble holding back her laughter at the scolding tone in Marta's voice and disapproving look on her face.
"And I'm sure Mother knows how to season it. She's, well, she's a girl."
Maria, enormously amused at the interaction between father and daughter, waited to see how Georg would respond to that. He seemed momentarily at a loss at being scolded by a seven year old, and possibly annoyed at how much Maria was clearly enjoying it, but he quickly regained the advantage.
"Marta, I'll have you know that most of the world's greatest chefs are men. I myself have some culinary experience from my days in the naval forces. I've seen a galley or two in my time."
He looked up at Maria, and when she saw the dangerously playful look in his eyes, she knew he was up to something. She knew she should probably feel wary because of that look, but she felt a quickening anticipation instead at what he might have in mind.
"May I?" Georg asked, gesturing toward the duck.
"By all means." Was he just going to season the duck? She felt slightly disappointed.
Georg removed his jacket, layed it on the edge of the counter, and rolled his sleeves up past his elbows. She caught a glimpse of color on his arm, the bottom edge of the very unusual anchor that was etched on his arm. She smiled as she remembered how reluctant he had been to tell her the story behind the tattoo. He had made her promise not to laugh, and it had taken a lot for her to keep that promise. In the end, he had been the one to laugh, and they had both been able to enjoy his secret ever since.
While she had been busy reminiscing, Georg had washed his hands. Now he laced his fingers together, stretched out his arms, and cracked his knuckles. Maria rolled her eyes; he could be so dramatic at times. Reaching for a bottle of oil, Georg looked over at her and winked. Oh yes, he was definitely up to something.
"Now, Marta, first we must spread oil over the skin."
He applied the oil liberally, then put down the bottle and began rubbing the oil over the duck. He was rubbing it in an odd fashion; it almost seemed as if he was massaging the bird.
"It is of the utmost importance that you rub oil over all of the skin to ensure that it will crisp and brown evenly. I have a particular inclination to tend to the breast."
He continued massaging the oil into the skin of the duck, his fingers swirling, rubbing, pinching, and smoothing as he spoke. Maria couldn't tear her eyes away from his hands; it reminded her of…
She looked up and found him staring at her, the expression in his eyes making her breathe in sharply. Without looking away from her, he continued his instructional monologue.
"You mustn't rush this part. It pays to be thorough. The results are so much better."
Her hand was sliding across her breast before she even realized that she had moved. She yanked her arm away violently, feeling the blood rushing to her face. His subtly wicked smile told her everything she needed to know; he knew exactly what he was doing. She felt her pulse quicken, and she glanced at Marta anxiously. But the girl was watching her father seasoning the duck, obviously unaware of any other meaning behind his words. When she looked back at Georg, he was wiping his hands on a towel and picking up the salt shaker.
"Next, we'll season with salt and pepper. I will show you the technique with the salt; you and your Mother can repeat the process with the pepper."
Marta nodded solemnly at her father, watching and listening carefully to what she saw as a simple cooking lesson. Georg salted the bird normally and without incident. Maria breathed a sigh of relief and felt her pulse settle down. Perhaps she had overreacted, reading too much into the meaning of his words and movements.
"Pay close attention. What I am about to do is critical. It is perhaps the most critical step of all. Most people focus on the outside of the bird. If you want to do it right, you must give full consideration to the inside of the bird. Here's what you must do. First spread the legs apart, pressing here on the upper part of the thighs. Then reach inside gently, to prepare it for proper seasoning. But not too gently. You need to be able to get the seasoning inside, and you may find that a more vigorous approach is sometimes more desirable."
He reached inside the cavity of the duck, spreading salt inside the bird, his hand moving, his fingers clearly massaging the area. Maria watched, unable to blink, unable to think of anything but the movement of his hand. She struggled to breathe through the pounding tightness in her chest, and she closed her eyes, trying to block the images that assaulted her, the vivid memory of the feel of those same fingers inside…
She opened her eyes and he was waiting for her, his eyes filled with something infinitely more compelling than the dangerously playful look they'd held when he had started. He looked down at the duck and, powerless, she looked down too. He traced the rim of the opening of the cavity with his fingers. She watched him do it. She felt him do it.
"And it would be positively sinful to neglect this area right here. Wouldn't you agree, Maria?"
The deeper tone in his voice, the tone he normally reserved for another place, shook her. She would have answered if she had been able to speak. But she didn't dare open her mouth; she didn't dare make a sound that Marta wouldn't understand. He looked directly at her, and she could only stare into her husband's eyes, his expression matching what she knew was in her own eyes.
Georg cleared his throat and put down the salt shaker. He stepped away from the counter and walked to the sink to wash his hands. He took his time, letting the water run over his hands. Maria took a deep, shuddering breath, attempting to settle herself, and looked at Marta, who had begun sprinkling pepper on the duck. She was relieved that Marta still seemed oblivious to what had happened. She planned to have a long talk with her husband about the impropriety and danger of what he had done in front of the girl, even if she had not noticed. They would discuss it that very evening. Right after…
At long last, Georg turned off the faucet, dried his hands, and put on his jacket. He seemed reluctant to face her, but he finally did so, with a guilty, sheepish look on his face. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost. She blushed slightly as she thought about what she wanted to say to him.
"Thank you for that very informative lesson. Perhaps we can continue discussing it tonight, in more detail?"
The smile formed slowly on his face; it was her favorite smile, the one that showed simultaneous delight and desire.
"I look forward to it. Well, I'll leave the two of you alone to finish your preparations."
"Goodbye, Father." Marta barely glanced at her father, far more interested in seasoning the duck with pepper.
Maria smiled as he left. As she watched Marta working diligently, she felt content in the knowledge that she had so much for which to be grateful - a family and home of her own, and a husband with whom to share her days and her nights. She couldn't ask for more.