Duck would never again be as fun as the tough, skinny, buckshot-riddled birds Mom and I cooked
“Mrs. Safer, Do you like ducks?” my adorable third-grade student asked as class was dismissed on a November Friday in 1962.
“Oh, yes,” I replied, recalling my many hours spent feeding the ducks and geese and riding the swan boats in Boston Common where I had grown up.
“I mean to eat,” she said, as if she had read my mind. “My dad is going hunting, and I could bring you some for dinner.”