Quack! Quack!
It was me who threw the stone - at least that’s how I remember it - and I was very proud of that fact at the time. We had been fishing all morning along Loyalhanna Creek and were just hanging out near Long Bridge in Darlington waiting for my sister to pick us up. Like most normal 13 year old boys, we were bored and showing off and getting into trouble now that the fishing was over. It was me, Danny Klosky, Vic Merola, and three ducks floating lazily down the river. Not wild ducks mind you, but big, fat, white, corn-fed, domesticated ducks.
The stone skipped once off the placid water and caught the lead duck square in the head. It never had a chance. “Holy Shit! Nice shot!” shouted Vic as he went splashing into the ankle-deep water to get the limp duck before it entered the rapids. I had no idea why he would want a dead duck when he came out of the creek holding by its feet it like an African safari trophy. Danny asked him what he was going to do with it and Vic responding in that typical Vic matter-of-fact-what-a-stupid-question tone, “We’re gonna eat it!”
So we found a filthy plastic bag tangled in the brush along the river and shoved the dead duck into it just as my sister pulled into the Road Toad parking lot and beeped her horn. When we got home, Danny took the bag and dropped it in the bushes between our houses. The dead duck would be fine there in the sweltering summer heat until we were ready to eat it later that afternoon. We agreed to meet out in the woods at 3:00 to prepare our feast. I was in charge of BBQ sauce, Danny would bring the butcher knife, and Vic would bring a bag of potato chips.
At 3:00 we started a fire, built a spit, and cleaned the duck. Fifteen minutes later the duck was slathered with BBQ sauce and searing over the flames. By 4:00 the BBQ sauce was golden brown and our roasted duck looked ready to eat. We devoured it, not even noticing that the meat underneath the lovely exterior was barely warm, let alone properly cooked. Needless to say, by 8:00 that evening I was vomiting so profusely that the event remains a story of legend in my family even to this date. And people wonder why I never had kids…
So, why this story now? Because yesterday on the train I was reading the free rag (Metro) that is handed out at all the stations and came across an article on how to catch, kill, and prepare a Park Duck. The author (who remained anonymous because killing park ducks is illegal even in anything goes Holland) would put on a business suit so as not to raise suspicion and then go sit on a park bench, distributing bread to the witless ducks. He even divulged his strategy for getting the ducks close, then throwing a piece of bread just beyond the lead duck so that it would have to turn its back, thereby giving the “hunter” a chance to pounce, grab it by the neck, give it a quick “whirl” to kill it, then shove it into a waiting bag. Good stuff. But most importantly was the preparation bit of the article. This guy gave several of his favorite recipes for properly cooking the little beasts. Mmmmm. Park Duck. Lekker! Happy hunting!
