Cowgirl and the duck

Texas is officially sweltering, averaging just above 100 degrees F. Which is what, 38-39 Celsius? That is just a bit over the temperature used for smoking meats so it's no wonder Wuzzy keeps licking us.

Speaking of meats, perhaps you know that magret de canard (duck breast) is one of my two favorite carnivorous addictions. Abundant in France yet extremely difficult to find in Texas. It is easier to find a buffalo steak than a duck breast. However, Henk talked to his new friend - Norman - who happens to be the meat manager at the local grocery store. (It's always a good idea to make friends with people who have useful jobs. Like the 'meat guy', a lawyer, a doctor or a mechanic.) Long story short, Norman came through for us and ordered some duck breast from California, which was a bit closer than ordering it from the other option: Japan. Since the breast was Californian, I kept my fingers crossed that it was real as opposed to some bizarre duck flavored silicone. That seemed to work, as the duck was delicious! Like most everything else, it was especially succulent when paired with Lime Pickle.

We hadn't had magret de canard since we left France and therefore, I was beginning to have withdrawal symptoms. To spare himself watching me in that state, Henk was determined to find the magret for me. God bless Norman. If it weren't for him, I'm afraid Henk would have resorted to buying a live duck from a farm. We've been down that road before...

About 12 years ago in Dallas, Henk pulled into our driveway with a duck flailing around in the car. I could see him swatting at the feathery soon-to-be-a-sacrifice as it tried to escape. Now there's an image for you: man fighting duck in the confines of a Mercedes. Eventually Henk just opened the door and the duck sort of jumped out. The duck wasn't a flyer which was good for us, bad for him. After Henk shouted a 'Hey Wend! Guess what we're having for dinner!?!', I tried to put it out of my mind that he was actually going to kill the poor thing. 'I'll be inside.', I responded. After Henk retrieved one of our kitchen knives, he went back outside to face his opponent. Killing a duck is not as simple as it seems, especially if the duck is running around the yard and jumping into the swimming pool. Mesmerized, I watched outside the breakfast room window for about an hour and a half - which was the length of time it took Henk to finally catch the bird. Gross and sad, Henk attempted to cut the duck's throat since this seemed the quickest and most humane way to get on with dinner. Mr. Duck didn't like that idea one bit and proceeded to try to gum/beak Henk's hand. And successful he was! Mr. Duck momentarily got away and Henk came into the kitchen saying, 'I need a box.' While I rummaged around to find a large box, Henk apparently retrieved one of our guns. Henk now armed with gun and box, I turned up the CD player and pretended to do something else. Since he had managed to make a slight laceration on the poor duck's throat, Mr. Duck wasn't moving around as fast as before. So only after 30 minutes this time, Henk caught Mr. Duck and quickly threw him in the box and secured the lid. Still mesmerized but this time with my jaw wide open, I watched as the box took on a life of it's own - rocking back and forth. Then my fearless hunter fired the gun at the box; once, twice, thrice and then a fourth time. To this day, we still disagree about the number of shots fired; I say four, maybe more; Henk says one. The number of holes in the box are my evidence, however. Point being, ordering duck from Norman was quite a bit less traumatic than actually killing one, though it takes nearly the same amount of time.

Despite her being bored from time to time, Sjaantje is doing fine. Last week she announced that she wanted some Texas cowboy boots. I, being such a good and proper mother, tried to dissuade her by saying, 'No, sweetheart. You can't have cowboy boots because you're a girl.' She didn't buy that at all and replied, 'Cowboy/Cowgirl. Whatever, I just really want some boots!' My suggestion for some clogs or leather sandals went absolutely nowhere. Eighty bucks later, she has some admittedly cool boots. The only problem is she wants to wear them with shorts (I have mentioned before that this is somewhat a fashion here) and I'm just not country 'hip' enough for that.

Yesterday, we received a large brown envelope from Sjaantje's old school in France. As it was addressed to 'Mr. and Mrs. Tilleman', we assumed it was some documents we might need for Sjaantje's enrollment next year. Wrong. It was chock full of letters to Sjaantje from all of her friends, plus the school class picture. Unbelievably sweet and touching - I almost cried. There was, however, a note scribbled to us on the outside of the envelope, written by the postmaster at the PO! Isn't that called tampering with the mail and isn't that illegal?! The post office guy is named Marc, so if any of you ex-pats or French friends go to the PO in Fourques, please tell Marc we return the greetings. I really miss our village.

I've not had any encounters with strange people lately. It's been a pretty sedate week aside from launching a rebuttal against some false document concerning Barcelona - winning no American friends or family on that one. Oh well, c'est la vie! Truth seems to do that to people.

Our car was supposed to arrive last Monday. Then it was delayed until Thursday, which eventually turned into Friday. Supposedly it has now arrived in Galveston and, of course, the port is closed on the weekend. Monday it is! I really need my car and am actually looking forward to the 5 hour each way trip.

The primordial soup pond has vociferously denounced my cleaning efforts. Now it is algae infested, plus the given mosquitos and somewhat appropriately there are baby tadpoles. I assume by next weekend we'll have a crocodile crawl out of it. Good thing Sjaantje has her boots.

Oh, and Sjaantje wants us to buy a big truck. Oh dear.