Duck Fat

A jar of duck fat, rendered from two ducks I cut up and cooked this weekend. As plain as this picture is, just a jar of nearly white, perfectly smooth fat, so it is.

The ducks were good. I grilled three of the legs and all of the breasts after marinating them overnight with a rub of fresh thyme, bay leaf, garlic, salt and pepper. We drank a 2003 Estancia Meritage, a birthday present from a cassoulet-laden feast two winters previous, and the sun-drenched grapes from Paso Robles, darkened and stilled in our Minnesota basement for a few years, opened up and with deep berries, licorice and spice, and welcomed my sister to our home.

On a surprisingly cold, rainy, June-grey Saturday we ate steaming hot bowls of duck-rich phố for lunch. Not much phố in Buffalo, but plenty in our kitchen after an all night simmer of bones and such. And again this evening, I seared the last leg and all the remaining meat bits in onions and fat, added flour, then stock, and made a bubbly rich dinner for another cold day. And still a half pot of stock in the icebox sits, brown dark and gelled, a stock for all seasons.

And when the stock is gone - tomorrow - a jar of duck fat will still sit in the fridge. And every time I reach for the jar and cook with it I'll be thankful I named my blog for it.