The pub was out. That evening, I sautéed the duck breasts we had bought, deglazed the pan with some red wine, then mixed in some blackcurrant jam for a sauce. I sliced the pieces with one passably sharp knife and served up the duck with some baked spuds. Mum and Lew seemed wary about eating rare duck, but quickly overcame their timidity and tucked in with great gusto. Even Kate liked it.
“Where did you learn to cook like that, son?” asked Lew.
“It’s fancy cooking. I never liked fancy cooking,” said Mum defensively.
“From books. When I lived over in Putney.”
“Ah, right, I remember—” said Lew. “Trundle Towers!”
“Well, at least I can say I’ve eaten duck now,” said Mum, with great satisfaction.
“You’ve had duck before, woman,” said Lew.
“I know what I’ve had. And I’ve not had duck. Never!” Mum said angrily.
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