Plucking Ducks

Last week I spent most of my time at my site taking care of business. That meant buying boxes and stuffing them with things I needed to send home ahead of time. It also meant squeezing in a few last visits with neighbors. I hadn't seen Natasha and Yeva all summer so I gave them a call at their apartment to see if they were there. Yeva picked up and promptly told me to come over so that I could be fed. This is the way it usually works: I call to see when I could come over and she will say to come over immediately. I still haven't accustomed myself to self-invitations. Calling, knowing that they will invite me, is the closest I've come to it.

I brought them a magnet from my travels as I usually do: this time from Koktebel. It usually serves as a conversation starter: "Where did you travel to this time? Tell me all about it. "

I walked into the kitchen and saw a bucket filled with feathers and a partially bloody duck carcass laying in another one. She began to set the table where I would eat just a few feet away from her handling a dead duck. I excused myself not from squeamishness but so that I could go and get my camera. I came back to a set table of borscht, cold potatoes, tomatoes, bread, and ... duck.

A lot of things just don't faze me anymore. So I sat and attacked that roast duck while we talked and Yeva continued plucking the rest of them.