LAZY MAN’S CONFIT

I LAID two halves of a duck skin side down in a cold pan with a few unpeeled cloves of garlic and some thyme, covered the pan, placed it over low heat and went into another room to read.

An hour later, I turned the pieces.

And an hour after that, I lifted out four of the most heavenly pieces of duck I have ever tasted. The slow, enclosed heat had steamed the meat and softened it like confit. The fat had rendered and, along with the generous amount of salt I had seasoned the duck with, had turned the skin chestnut brown with delicious, caramelized edges.

I crisped the skin in some hot oil, and tasted it right on my cutting board. It was better than many restaurant dishes, and I had actually gotten past a table of contents while making it. My only regret was that I hadn't learned to cook duck this way sooner.

Duck is long beyond its days as the stuffy fare of French restaurants, and has taken on life in all forms on restaurant menus. In fact, there are few menus without duck. Slivers of confit are cradled in spring rolls; wild duck is roasted rare and paired with things like berries and root vegetables; duck breasts are turned into a salty, satiny ''prosciutto''; there's even duck sausage.