The Wistful Petal
The roast duck sat in the center of the mahogany table, its skin glistening with a glaze that had turned black and sticky in the heat of the oven, a monument to culinary failure that we ate anyway because there was nothing else in the pantry and because the war had made us too tired to be picky, or perhaps too proud to admit that our hands were shaking too much to handle the knife with any...
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