Last night, we ate at a Japanese restaurant. Two of my dining companions were seized with gastric distress on the way home. There was some question of whether we would make it in time.

I only had time to take a picture of the chicken. Most of the ducks and pizzas are now neatly packaged (bin packing, they call it, being programming types) and are en route to Berkeley.

I am in possession of a goodly amount of duck fat, but not quite enough for confit making. There will be more ducks.

Real phone conversation:

Me: Hello
Pizza Hut: Hello, we’d like to speak to the persons who ordered pizzas this afternoon.
Me: Why is that?
Pizza Hut: We are taking a survey.
Me: They are watching the Oscars, and I would like to be back in there doing the same.
Pizza Hut: Oh, sorry. Bye.
Me: Bye.

I buy ducks at an Asian store, where they are more or less fully equipped. If you don’t care for a face on your food, you wouldn’t like it here.

Another gloomy, windy, cold day, but a good one for cooking enormous amounts of food. Some of it is for watching the Oscars tonight, some the boys will take back to Berkeley, some will be excellent leftovers for the rest of the week.

Why am I roasting two ducks. Because I want to make duck confit for the first time, and I hear that vast quantities of duck fat will be needed.

Ed Harris, in a Nazi uniform, grinning as he sets up the detonation of a line of train cars. A little out of camera range, but slowly moving toward the viewer is me, in some kind of iron cell set deep in the ground. The sides are too high to climb, there is no place to sit, and Ed is almost ready. I have the 60 seconds or so to contemplate my certain fiery death.

This is typical of the sort of dream I have just before waking. But I think this one is heavily influenced by Oscar night.