I've been getting swept up in a lot of "Disaster Recovery Tests" here at work, which basically means I end up driving out to some hotsite for a few days and working my tail off. The basic idea is that we have to assume that our data center was destroyed by a comet or overrun by Commie Nazis or something, and we have to rebuild everything. I actually enjoy them, because while it's hard work and long hours, it's almost completely technical problems, which is the part of my job I don't despise with every fiber of my soul. Unfortunately, many of the technical problems appear to be with stuff I don't control (invariably the backup systems get all screwed up and take 3 times as long to get running as we had anticipated; so far this has happened EVERY SINGLE TIME, and yet we invariably allocate like 3 minutes to get that stuff built), so I spend a lot of time sitting there watching OTHER people panic.

Anyway, we did one starting Friday morning in Carlstadt, New Jersey, which is like one good camel spit from Manhattan. My part in the test wrapped up at about 2am Saturday morning, so I went back to the hotel, got some sleep, packed up, checked out, and drove through Manhattan to Brooklyn to meet my boy Josh for some Wild Fun, which at this stage in my life consists mostly of eating everything I can find.

We grabbed brunch at a nice place called Rosewater (very reasonable; I think we paid about $36 for our grub, which was pretty nice by NYC standards), and then headed into the city to misbehave. We wandered all over Greenwich Village and its environs, ate at Joe's Pizza (really good), got ice cream at Cones (bloody outstanding), and then a few hot dogs at a street vendor (tasted like a tobacconist's carpet), along with going into a few fun shops selling things like raccoon penis bones (really).

We went back to Brooklyn to chillax for a while (my left knee has developed the annoying habit of developing AGONIZING PAIN if I walk more than a few miles, so I needed to rest it up), met up with Josh's girlfriend Cassie, and spent a few hours jamming on our Guitars (we, sadly, did not play Freebird). After Cassie's nap, the three of us went out and got delicious BBQ (I don't remember where). Mmmmm...brisket. Then we went back into Manhattan to go to a party, at which I met a large number of Josh and Cassie's friends and drank too much vodka.

I may or may not have said horribly racist things in the cab on the way back to Brooklyn. I honestly remember nothing of the ride (I fell asleep for most of it), but woke up the next morning with a feeling in my stomach that indicated either I had cast aspersions on the heritage of various persons, or had simply poisoned myself with alcohol, or both. So, to all who were in the car with me (Cassie, Josh, and some poor Middle Eastern driver), I apologize for any and all things I may have said about anything. (This is a pretty standard boilerplate statement that I issue whenever I drink more than 3 cocktails in one sitting.)

Sunday we all slept in until about noon, and then Cassie had to go meet friends for brunch, so Joshums and I went to the Miracle Grill, a satellite location of the official one in Manhattan that's mostly known for being Bobby Flay's first big restaurant, before he got famous and turned into a dick. I had an omelet with herbed goat cheese in it, which was ridiculously good.

Then we hung out at Josh's apartment playing Burnout until I got back in the car and drove home, where I collapsed and entertained myself by tickling Charles to make him giggle, which is HILARIOUS.

Walking through my local Acme on Monday, I discovered that, of all things, they were selling Ducklings. 5 pounders. On sale for $1.99 a pound. I was like, whaaaaaaa? I have a more or less permanent craving for duck, and have always wanted to make it myself, but never found a place that sold it (I guess I could check a local butcher, but there's not one that's at all convenient). I consider it rather a gourmet item, so finding it Acme seemed incongruous; I half expected to find, I dunno, bricks of foie gras or something nearby.

Anyway, I grabbed me one and brought it home. Sarah was out with Charles, having dinner with friends, so I had plenty of time; I made a nice brine, pulled all the giblets out of the bird, and threw that puppy in there for a good soak. Mmmm...sugar salt water. While that sat outside in the snow to keep things from getting too bacteria-y, I worked in the garage building a custom-sized baby gate for our main staircase, which is only 5 steps high but 48" wide, and all the pre-made gates that fit that size and were hinged were going to run us $60 and I said HA HA to that. HA.

After a couple hours, I covered the bird in salt and pepper, sliced up the skin a bit to promote rendering and tasty browning, and threw it into a 400 degree oven to try and get me a nice crispy skin. After about 20 minutes, the skin was sort of bubbling, but not yet brown; I lowered the temperature a bit and put my probe thermometer in the thigh.

After an hour or so, it started beeping. I was like, wait what? I thought this thing would take 2, maybe three hours. Nay nay, apparently. The skin was still kinda squishy, but I'm not terribly picky, so I cut in, and was nearly bathed in dark red liquid. Ummm...yeah, done my fat pink booty. Back into the oven it went, and I upped the temperature to 500 to try and crispify things.

5 minutes later....beep beep beep! What the hell. I got out my instant-read thermometer, though, and everything said 165, which admittedly is lower than the 180 demanded by the government, but if I did everything the government said I'd have a lot fewer hobo bodies under my floorboards. There was still red liquid, but I said to myself, hey, this is duck. Not nasty salmonella-y chicken. I'm gonna eat it.

And I did. And I'm still alive! It was delicious, although the skin needed way more crispitude. Next time: I'm just gonna let that bastard broil.