Dinner

Mike put a ceramic roasting pan in the middle of the table. “A duck,” he stated while removing the lid. The rosy meat, with lacquered skin patches, shone where the fat had rendered, covering it with a wet glaze. A sweet and gamy smell permeated the room. Mike walked to his Grandpa and pushed his chair closer to the table. He put Grandpa’s hands next to the plate and slid the fork and knife between his fingers. “Let me help you,” Mike said as he straightened Grandpa’s head and placed a napkin under his chin.

Mike grabbed a carving knife and cut through the duck’s skin. “Cantonese-style, but I remembered not to use the orange peels.” The glaze cracked like thin glass, and steam curled upward when the blade slid through the tender meat. A stream of clear golden fat ran into the roasting pan. “I can bring you more scallions.” Mike placed three overlapping slices on Grandpa’s plate. Then he placed four slices on his plate and poured wine into two glasses. “Pinot Noir,” he explained.

Mike sat on his chair and sliced a bite. Yellow fat oozed from the meat when he pressed the fork into it. “I fixed the roof. The drain pipe is all rusty. I have to buy a new one,” Mike said while lifting the fork to his mouth. He closed his eyes as he chewed the duck. “I paid the neighbour’s kid for mowing the lawn behind the shed,” Mike added when he reached for the wine glass and took a sip of wine. A red drop flowed down his lip and disappeared in his thick beard. On the plate, duck fat pooled and shimmered like liquid amber.

Mike put the fork on the empty plate and finished his glass of wine. “I will do the washing,” he said. He walked to Grandpa, took the napkin from under his chin and wiped Grandpa’s mouth with it. He carefully placed Grandpa’s hands on his lap and pulled the chair back from the table. Mike took the plate and slid three slices of duck into a rubbish bin. “Goodnight. Same time tomorrow,” he added as he left the room with dirty dishes in his hands.