How to Cook a Moose by Kate Christensen Page A

vinegar, hazelnut oil, and thyme.
    Later, on the way home, the Downeast Duck drove by us yet again. We waved at the tourists, and they waved back.
    That night, we made exactly the dish we’d envisioned on our walk: two big, juicy duck breasts pan-fried until the fat rendered; four medium Yukon Gold potatoes steamed, then cubed, then crisped and browned in the duck fat; three small julienned zucchini poached in butter and chicken broth; and snap pea salad with thyme vinaigrette.
    I made a fruity Maine-ish glaze for the duck: rhubarb, blueberries, maple syrup, cognac, thyme, ginger, and red wine, boiled well and pureed in the blender . . .
    We toasted the tourist bus as we ate, glad that we weren’t tourists, glad that we lived here.

    The day after the renovation was finally finished, we unpacked the boxes of cooking utensils and pots and bowls, baking pans and cookie sheets and wooden spoons, glasses, cups, plates, and the bags of staples, rice and lentils and pasta. We slotted the spices into the indentedmaple ledge built into the back of the island, emptied the corner of the living room where all the kitchen stuff had been stored since February, moved the table and chairs back into the dining room, rearranged the couch and armchairs around the fireplace in the living room, vacuumed and mopped and dusted and hung pictures.
    Our friend Rosie was coming from Brooklyn to visit us that weekend. This would be our first meal for a guest in the new kitchen. What should we cook, we wondered?
    Rosie is a formidably accomplished, knowledgeable cook, a famous bartender and inventor of cocktails, but despite that, she’s never intimidating to cook for or to mix drinks for, because she is impeccably philosophical. She wants to be pleased; she wants to enjoy our hospitality. A couple of years before, I had forgotten to trim the strings off some sugar snap peas I had sautéed with green beans to go alongside Brendan’s roast, and my potatoes dauphinoise was too dry because I hadn’t used enough cream. We ate our meal, picking peapod strings out of our teeth, putting away plenty of dauphinoise despite its flaws.
    Mid-meal, I broke down and apologized.
    Rosie shot back, “Julia Child said, ‘Never apologize, never explain.’ I never do. You shouldn’t either.”
    And that was that.
    Therefore, I knew that whatever we made, Rosie would not complain; she would eat enthusiastically and without criticism. But even so, I wasn’t going to try anything new or complicated. I felt superstitious. It had to be good.
    My mind kept drifting to a favorite standby, which is foolproof, easy, fast, no-fuss, comforting, and delicious: haddock fillets cut into bite-size pieces and marinated in lemon juice and harissa spices, then added to a skillet in which chopped chorizo and leeks have been sautéed in olive oil and white wine. The fish is poached till it’s tender andcooked through; then this smoky, spicy stew is served over red rice cooked in chicken broth, with garlicky steamed red chard alongside.
    I was already drooling at the thought of digging into a red-hued plateful that night; we’d light candles, open the windows, dim the chandelier.
    And so it came to pass:
    â€œThis is Harissa Haddock, BBC News,” I said in a fake British accent as I poured wine.
    â€œWait,” Rosie shot back, “I thought Harissa Haddock was the tragic, much preyed-upon, oft-violated young heroine of an extremely long eighteenth-century novel?”
    â€œThat was Moll Flounders,” said Brendan. We all laughed, and then we ate.

    Harissa Haddock
    3 T olive oil
    1 lb. fresh haddock (two good-size fillets)
    2 T harissa dry spice mix
    juice of 1 lemon
    1/2 cup white wine, or more if desired
    2 large leeks, cleaned well and chopped
    2 fresh pork chorizo sausages
    1 cup red rice
    1 3/4 cups chicken broth
    1 T butter
    2 lbs. red chard, well-rinsed and chopped
    8 garlic cloves
    1 cup chicken broth
    1 T olive