I am from Beijing, and those who know me well (therefore know my stomach) may recall that I am an avid duck lover. For Thanksgiving, instead of turkey, I cook duck. If I ever have enough luck to choose my last meal, I will go for a wafer-thin crispy-crackling-caramel duck skin sprinkled with raw sugar. As the little grains of sugar roll under my humid tongue and melt with the duck skin — enter euphoria from all the sweetness and fat.
This lovely reminiscence, however, is a morbid joke my mind played on me as I’m recalling the family of ducks near Chipotle’s river today (not a real river, more like a stream; named after the nearest Chipotle). How timid were they when they approached me (a gigantic alien sitting at the only corner in the sun not covered in mushy fertilizers for the soil, courtesy of the ducks), their onyx eyes unbashful as they hinted at my loaf of bread. After some light snacks, they resumed their unsuccessful hunt as they dipped their bodies once more into the water. Beads of the tiny stream glided along the tip of their plumes, down melded into the water as they tapped their heads again and again. Under feathers mottled in ivory and taupe brown, the sunlight caught a dashing purple. Even the seemingly plain grey ducks have also adorned themselves with trendier colors, I myself was wearing a purple sweater today — it is definitely the color of this season. By the time I was leaving, some ducks had climbed onto the banks along the stream and started preening their feathers for a nap. They tucked their beaks under their wings and tried to get as many feet as possible under their belly. If a duck chose to stand, he could at most get one foot under that downy pillow.
Stranger Under My Skin 