Sauce a la Sir

Tonight, Sir made dinner.

Exhausted by my many and varied projects of late (jam! banana cake! more jam! oh - and I'm working weekends these days, too), I was getting ready to declare yet another night of Italian takeout when Sir magnanimously announced he would accept responsibility for the evening meal.

This offer was not entirely without its self-serving side. Loyal readers may recall that there has, in the back of my refrigerator, been mellowing and marinating a large container of duck confit, first placed behind the cheese box on December 9th and untouched since. Sir has been lobbying for the confit since, oh, the day it was made, but accepted reluctantly that the longer it sat the more unctuous and amazing it would become.

Tonight, he seized his chance.

Somewhat trepditatiously, we slowly heated the huge block of congealed duck fat in a low oven until we were able to excavate all the pieces without damaging them too much. The aroma wafting from the duck was delicious with, thankfully, no hint of spoilage. We shredded the legs but left the breasts in tact, because they seemed happy that way and looked very nice. I strained the fat through a cheesecloth-lined sieve and returned it to the fridge, where I will dip into it from time to time for various nefarious purposes. I then retired to my favorite toile-upholstered armchair with my Kindle while Sir worked his magic.

He heated the duck up in the oven to warm it, drain it of residual fat, and crisp the skin. He took some of the fat and roasted in it potatoes, which emerged from the oven crunchy and delicious.

He served the duck atop a pool of elegant sauce rouge: thick; slightly sweet; fruity and mysterious.

When pressed for details he was rather coy, truth be told, but the Squid and I managed eventually to winkle from him his recipe. Sir is not one for measuring ingredients, but he's fairly certain this is pretty much what he did:

• First, he splashed about one-quarter cup (he thinks) of a rather impish Beaujolais Nouveau from the basement stores into a small saucepan and heated it up.
• He added half a small jar of pear and pineapple jam (which would mean two ounces) to the wine and dissolved it into ruby red lusciousness.
• Finally, he added his secret ingredient, by which he has sworn ever since first learning of its indispensability to the freres Roux, who used to keep supplies on hand in their Michelin-starred kitchens - an additional tablespoon of ambrosia to impart richness, depth and an enigmatic spice to the final coulis.

He is calling the dish Canard Charme avec Confiture et Catsup and exceedingly fine it was, too.