Gwen, my roommate, and I looked for every way we could find to cut our budget to the bare bones. We both worked for the City of Corvallis which did not pay much in those days and there really were no such things as "bennies." We got two weeks vacation at the end of each year of work, and we got a paycheck once a month. Period. So much for the cushy job of being a public employee. But we were young and didn't have many needs. In those days, one was considered fortunate to have a TV and we had one. What we didn't have, after paying rent and utilities and the phone bill, was much money for food. We lived on tomato soup, milk, eggs and bread. We never invited friends over to eat. We also never turned down a free meal but had to learn how to sever the strings that the person doing the inviting may have thought were attached to the invitation.
Shortly before Thanksgiving that year Rose, a co-worker gave us hope of something better. "Would you girls like a duck or two to roast?" she asked. I glanced at Gwen who looked somewhat doubtful.
"You bet!" I exclaimed, "I love duck!" My boyfriend and his father were duck hunters and had brought fresh wild ducks to our house on occasion. They were always cleaned but they cautioned us about watching for buckshot while we were eating. My mother was none too fond of wild game and it frequently fell to me to cook them. They were tougher than other poultry I had had and oilier but I enjoyed the subtle flavor. At least with domestic ducks we wouldn't have to worry about buckshot! Gwen was eyeing me suspiciously. I smiled.
"Well, come on over this weekend and pick up a couple. We've got too many in the barnyard and we have to get rid of at least half of them." I thanked Rose and we made arrangements for Gwen and I to stop by on Saturday morning about 11:00 am.
"Are you nuts?" Gwen asked as we walked home from work. "I've never eaten duck in my life.
"But you'll like it, Gwen, I promise," I assured her. "I know you like chicken and you've always told me how much you love turkey. Domestic ducks can't be that much different. Besides, I know lots of ways to fix them."
"OK, OK," Gwen capitulated, "I suppose it's better than what we've been eating!" She wrinkled up her nose in obvious displeasure.
"And think about it. We could actually invite someone over for dinner. Roast duck for Thanksgiving. Maybe we could find a recipe for a really exotic stuffing the wouldn't cost too much. I bet we could find someone who would even be willing to bring a bottle of wine. Sounds kind of romantic, don't you think?"
That eliminated all the remaining objections she. Gwen had been dying to invite the cute guys who lived above us over for dinner. Tomato soup wasn't much of an offering but roast duck . . . I could see the wheels turning in Gwen's head. We decided to invite them for the Saturday after Thanksgiving since we would both be going home for Thanksgiving Day. That would give us time to make meal plans and collect everything we wanted to go with it. We could scout our mothers' kitchens for stuffing ingredients. The ducks would store just fine in the freezer compartment of our refrigerator and we would have one for Christmas, too. By the time we got home, we both felt lucky. Gwen called the guys that same evening and they actually seemed eager to accept.
The next Saturday, we hopped into Gwen's green Mustang and headed off to the country and our ducks. We arrived at Rose's promptly at 11.
"Hi, girls!" she greeted us from the driveway, "come on back and I'll show you where they are." I liked Rose in her blue jeans. She looked down-to-earth and comfortable. I had only seen her in skirts and heels at the office. I was so busy musing over how she looked that I didn't realize the significance of heading out towards the back of the barn until we got there.
"There they are," Rose swept her arm wide to include the poultry pen which was full of chickens, ducks and geese of all shapes and sizes. "Pick out a couple of the big white ones; they're a little tamer and easier to catch. Did you bring boxes? If not I'll dig out a couple and have them for you at the house when you've got the ducks." With that she headed back to the house and left Gwen and I standing stock still like statues in the barnyard staring at her retreating back.
"Now what, Einstein?" Gwen finally asked, turning to me with an accusing expression on her face.
"Well," I shrugged, "I guess we catch ducks." I opened the gate to the pen and stepped in. Ducks and geese and chickens burst off in all directions, leaving me all alone in the middle of the pen amid a sea of swirling feathers. "Come on, Gwen," I called, "this is definitely not a job for one person!"
"That's what you think," Gwen responded, "this was your bright idea, not mine." But even with those doleful words, she opened the gate and joined me, causing a second cacophony of wings and quacking and honking and cackling.
We managed to get ourselves covered in feathers and poultry poop head to foot before we caught even the first duck. We looked like refugees from a war zone with our faces red and smudged, our arms scraped and our hair sticking out at all angles when we finally trudged back to the house with our catch of the day.
"Well, have fun?" Rose met us cheerfully with a big cardboard box. She seemed oblivious to the state of our clothes. "Would you like some lemonade before you go? You both look a little hot."
"No thanks," Gwen hardly sounded civil and didn't even try to smile, "we've really got to get going."
I, too, had difficulty smiling. There were feathers up my nose and a bad taste in my mouth. We stuffed the ducks in the box, put it on the back seat, climbed in and started off down the driveway.
"Quack, quack, quack," came the muffled sounds of the ducks from the back seat.
"What in the world are we going to do with them?" Gwen wailed. "Who would have thought she expected us to kill them?!?"
"I don't know," I answered, "but it's after four and I'm starving."
"Well, have a duck, you'll like it, I promise," Gwen's mocking tone made me squirm. I deserved it, though; I had talked her into this mess.
"Oh, Gwen, I'm sorry. I never dreamed she'd give 'em to us live! Can't you think of anyone who could take care of them for us? Your folks don't live that far away." I was feeling a little panicky.
"They're not home this weekend." Gwen's tone was discouraging.
"Quack, quack, quack," the muffled sounds in the back seat added to my own distress.
"Those things stink!" Gwen cried, "Roll down your window. I hope we can get the smell out of my car." We were stopped at a stop light and as I rolled down my window, the boy in the car next to us noticed and rolled his down, also.
"Hi," he said, "what're you girls doin'?'
"Quack, quack, quack!" answered him from the back seat. His expression changed to one of astonishment as he leaned out to try to see into the back of Gwen's car. As the light changed, Gwen punched it, leaving him still sitting at the intersection. At the next light, however, there he was next to us motioning insistently for me to roll down my window.
"This is really humiliating," Gwen said, "I'm going to lose that guy." She punched it again when the light changed.
"Quack, quack, quack," the ducks protested from the back seat.
"We're going to my aunt and uncle's in Philomath. He's got a farm; he'll know what to do with them." She had managed to elude the guy in the blue car and pulled into the A&W, rolling down her window to order something to drink.
"What'll you have?" asked the voice over the speaker.
"Um, I think we'll just have . . . "
"Quack, quack, quack!" interrupted her from the back seat.
"Oh, very funny," said the speaker, "I don't have time for practical jokes. Either order or go away!"
"Quack, quack, quack," clamored the ducks, flapping their wings against the sides of the box.
"Just forget it," Gwen said in resignation and pulled the car back out to the road. "Maybe we can get something to drink at my uncle's."
When we arrived, we wrestled the box out of the back seat and headed up the walk to the front door. There was no one home. Now we were really stuck. It would be dark soon and there was no where else we could go. We certainly couldn't take the ducks back to our apartment. We sat down on the steps and looked at each other over the top of the box quacking between us. Neither of us said a word.
That's where Gwen's uncle found us, staring off into the sunset, when he arrived home about a half hour later. We were both so overjoyed to see him that he seemed quite flattered and happily dispatched the ducks for us in minutes. He cleaned them quickly and removed as many of the feathers as he could.
"Now girls," Gwen's aunt said, "you really should dip them in wax to remove those pin feathers. It's really simple and you shouldn't have any trouble. Come here a moment, Gwen and I'll tell you just how to do it."
Five minutes later we were back on the road towards home with our dead ducks wrapped in butcher paper in a new, clean box in the back. Gwen's car stunk.
"OK," I turned to Gwen, "just how do we take care of the pin feathers?"
"Beats me," she responded, glancing at me sideways, "it seems we need about ten pounds of paraffin and a twenty quart stock pot. You don't just happen to have those lying around somewhere, do you?"
We were nothing, however, if not resourceful. We chilled the ducks thoroughly overnight while we considered alternatives. For the next three nights after work, Gwen and I each plunked down on opposite ends of the sofa, a duck carefully wrapped in a dishtowel cradled it in our arms while we watched television . . . and plucked out every pin feather with a pair of eyebrow tweezers.
Thanksgiving dinner with almond and rice stuffed duck was impressive . . . and superb. We graciously accepted all the praise our young neighbors offered. We both quit plucking our eyebrows for several months, though, and we ceased to find funny the old bubble-gum-wrapper joke whose answer was "a box of quackers."
