"Baby, the ducks are not going to last in the fridge until I get back, could you do me a huge favor and pack them up and freeze them?"
Ugh.
I hate this kind of job. So much so that one of our unspoken agreements* is that I never get involved in the killing, plucking, gutting, butchering, storing or cooking of any of the wild things he brings home. My job, when appropriate, is to eat them. I love my job.
These ducks have been in the fridge for days, taking up all the space on the lower shelf. There are seventeen of them, in a huge plastic bag. They need to be relocated to smaller plastic bags and somehow stuffed into the already overfull freezer. We really must have people over for dinner soon, we can barely close the freezer door.
What a job, this job that is not the job that I love.
Bloody.
Smelly.
Slimy.
Bloody in the way that makes me yearn for the plastic gloves I do not have and will not buy in time. Smelly in the way that I used to live in the wild, eating rice and taunting hunters but now I'm dead and laying in a bag with my brothers. Slimy, not in the food gone rotten way, slimy in the way of dead ducks in a bloody plastic bag full of other dead ducks. Which is plenty slimy enough.
The good news is that these ducks are truly delicious.
The bad news is that I'm sick of eating duck.
*it may be time to put this agreement in writing.