Why Can’t I Shrink My Book like a Duck Leg?

I shipped Thyroid Resurrection: from dead to dynamic — without drugs! out to the wilds of Missouri yesterday. Postage cost $6.37. Although it’s only hundred-some pages. Serves the reader right for living in ‘Murrica, I suppose.

To cheer myself up, I went grocery shopping. I love to shop for food to cure depression. And it was my lucky day. I spied a little package of duck leg, maybe a tad smaller than that book, a day past Best Before (something that never happens to books, right?). Smiling like a plump rodent, I handed it to the meat-department pundit, who gave me a dirty look for being a smart ass but marked it down to three bucks.

I had a sauce in mind for that duck leg: bacon fat, blueberry juice, wine, aloe juice, herbs, pork drippings. sweet-potato flour for thickening.…yum! Even seniors can live well with a little sneaky ingenuity. If I could find that bag of healthy anti-cancer herb back, it would taste even better….

When I tired of looking at the computer screen, lost in the joy of research for the next book (on fibromyalgia this time), I addressed the stove, which is a lot more fun—unless I’m doing fiction, poetry or drama—than addressing the computer with its two-hundred-some emails per day and the stupid pop-up consumerist junk. I hauled the duck leg out of the fridge and cut open its bag with my trusty kitchen shears…the bag sighed like a resuscitated alien. Out slid not one, but two magnificent duck legs! The entire locomotive system of an avian life form (probably completely unaware of its desirability).

I popped both legs into the pan before I could give another thought to the ex-life of the dinner bird.

They proved indescribably delicious. I had one last night; one tonight, stuffing myself with a sinless accompaniment—raw, undressed pea shoots—both times. Lord Tyee ate the connective tissue and the ends of the leg bones more elegantly than I would have done. I suppose I could have given him the entire bones but didn’t want to be forced to perform the Heimlich Manoeuvre on a one-hundred-thirty-pound wolf.

I couldn’t help ruminating, “More than a thousand miles away, this ducky lived its brief life. Maybe further away than Missouri…”.

Three dollars?

I hope my book is at least as tasty as those duck legs.

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