DONNA’S DUCK

When I was in graduate school in Atlanta, I took a night job at a restaurant called The Lark and the Dove. I was new at waitressing, felt silly and self-conscious in my Heidi-themed dress and clogs, and was determined to get it right.

My second night, a customer ordered duck. My job was to get the roast duck from the cook, transfer it to a rolling table, and wait for Donna, the maitre d’, to join me. We would take the duck to the customer’s table, and Donna would flame it with brandy. Donna was cool. She wore suede hot pants and boots and seemed to know everything.

It was dark in the restaurant area where the rolling table awaited, and I was nervous. I placed the duck-laden platter in the table’s center. I waited for Donna. And then I stared, horrified, as the duck sizzled and spat and shattered. Skin and meat and bones flew everywhere. Through the disaster, I saw the heating element where I’d unknowingly placed the platter. I tried not to cry.

Donna approached, looking businesslike. “Everything okay here?”

I swallowed, stood straight as I could.  “Donna,” I said, “I blew up a duck. I didn’t mean to.”

She looked at me, past me at the destroyed duck, back at me. She blinked. I figured my Lark and Dove days were over.

“Well,” she said. “A blown-up duck. Let’s eat it.”

We took the duck to the kitchen where we sliced pieces for us and the other waitresses, and we all chewed them with gusto. Explosion victim or not, that duck was delicious. The cook prepared another duck, Donna flamed it at the table, my self-esteem was restored, and I made some fine tips that night.

I hope I learned some compassion from Donna and hope I pass it on to others. But I also use that memory for another purpose.

I’m a bit of a klutz. In the kitchen, for example, I’m prone to being off in my head somewhere, snapping back to reality when I’ve dropped, spilled, or smeared something. I used to roll my eyes at myself, muttering, “You were paying absolutely zero attention. God, you’re careless.”

I decided to quit that. Now, when I knock over a salt bowl, I take a breath and say, “I blew up a duck.”

If Ed’s around, he says, “Well. Let’s eat it.” If he’s not, I say it to myself. “Well. Let’s eat it.”

Translation: I messed up and didn’t mean to. Gonna make the best of it. Relax.

Thank you, Donna. You and your duck may have added a few years to my life.

#