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pete
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little cuts, pulling steadily, letting the knife follow the waste.
i try to forget myself, the music blocks my mind, keeping me from feeling what lays behind the ticking clock, passing into sacred time.
angle the blade against the skin, so that as much as the meat is left.
i'm confused, letting the minutes pass faster than they should. i feel like my secrets are pouring out of my pores with each droplet of sweat.
makes sure to score the fat, that way it won't all melt when you put it in the pan.
a simple kindness, a curse? or just a new situation, uncomfortable in its idleness. in my idleness.
don't forget to remove the tenderloin, its edible so don't throw it out either.
soon enough autumn will come, and i will be awash with what has changed and what has remained, if only on hold for the summer. so many friendships to renew, traditions to reestablish, so much fragility to skirt.
the pan should be stupid hot first. brown the fat side, then drain it, and then flip the breast onto the meat side, let it brown quickly, and then finish it in the oven.
another week til he comes back, another week of idleness i suppose. though the rest should be trickling in soon. all is ending, all is beginning again. i want the change to be quick and painless, instead it has already drawn on too long, has left silent scars on an abused soul.
let the meat rest for a few minutes, so it won't bleed when cut into. eat and enjoy.
what does cleaning and cooking a duck breast have to do with the end of summer?
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050824
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