How to Cook a Moose by Kate Christensen

dough; he rolled it out. I made the pork mixture; he wrapped it. I steamed the dumplings; he fried them. I made the scallion-ginger sauce; he stir-fried shiitake mushrooms and baby bok choy to go alongside. This was the beginning of a beautiful kitchen romance. Since then, he’s made me more aware of the value of traditional recipes; I’ve begun consulting and using them with increased respect for the cooks who’ve gone before me. And he’s become more relaxed and inventive, learning to throw together a “cupboard supper,” a concept he learned from me.
    All my life, I felt lonely and alone, even in my family, even when I was married, even in the kitchen. I no longer do. Our harmony in the kitchen is a metaphor for the way we are together. We rarely fight; but it’s not boring, it’s soothing. We bolster each other and share a sense of purpose. We’re both writers and inherently solitary people, but instead of going off to our respective corners of the house, we’re able to sit at the same table and write side by side. We pass our work back and forth for edits, ideas, and feedback.
    The whole issue of our vast and unconventional age difference was a little harder to solve, no matter how natural it seemed to us that wewere together, how easy and inevitable our connection felt right from the start. At the beginning, in the first months or year, we were both a little self-conscious about being around other people in public. Would they treat us weirdly, look askance, make unflattering assumptions about us? In fact, they did, but interestingly, it was only people who knew us who did that—a few acquaintances, friends, and family members. Amazingly, in all these years, we have never encountered any awkwardness or judgment from strangers. Everywhere we go, when we meet people, they instantly seem to understand that we’re together, and they don’t seem to think anything is amiss about it. It’s not that I don’t look older than Brendan; of course I do. But no one ever mistakes me for his mother, or any relative at all. From this, I surmise that the way we are together is more telling of our connection than what we look like superficially, which I find both comforting and interesting.
    Over the years, as we’ve grown closer and more rooted with each other, we’ve become out-and-out accomplices and collaborators in the kitchen. One summer day on the Eastern Prom, the amphibious tourist vehicle called the Downeast Duck trundled by at the top of the hill. A little while later, as we came along the trail above the bay, we saw it floating out in the water.
    â€œI want to make a dish called Downeast Duck,” said Brendan suddenly, after we’d been walking for a while in silence.
    I am always up for a speculative discussion of a hypothetical future meal.
    â€œWhat would you serve with it? What cuisine?” I said. “Chinese? With rice noodles? Ginger-cilantro broth? Hot and sour or barbecue sauce?”
    â€œDowneast,” he said. “So it would be Maine duck.”
    And that was that, because he is the native of this region, and therefore the authority on all things local.
    We batted this idea around, trying as hard as we could to include some lobster in our vision: duck confit with lobster terrine? Too fancy and labor-intensive. Roast duck wings with lobster claws? Funny in theory but awkward on the plate. Duck and lobster jambalaya, risotto, or paella? Too much starch all around. We eventually jettisoned the lobster, or rather, saved it for another meal, and settled on the following simple feast: duck breasts, pan-fried until they rendered much of their fat, then a heap of cut-up potatoes, Yukon Golds probably, pan-roasted in the duck fat. The sliced crisp breasts would go on top of a mound of julienned zucchini tenderly poached in chicken broth and butter. And alongside, a simple salad of chopped blanched sugar snap peas in a dressing of champagne