There are some pitfalls to sharing

At this time of year, with the garden producing at its max, what better time to share the fruits of one’s labour.
But beware there are pitfalls.
For example, never mention that you are fond of zucchini or spaghetti squash. Your doorstep and yard will be littered with them in a matter of hours.
And your car, you dare not leave it unlocked or it, too, will be similarly stuffed with gourds.
On the other side of the coin, be too generous and you could run yourself short. One Hooterville resident offhandedly said “Help yourself” when a neighbour complimented him on his excellent crop of carrots.
His wife watched in dismay as the neighbour cleaned out the last of the bed, carting off a wheelbarrow load of the bounteous roots.
She was simply too embarrassed to suggest the neighbour back off and leave a few for her.
But it all worked out in the end. Another neighbour offered a supply from his larder—all washed and bagged.
“Naw, you can have them all,” he said. “I don’t eat carrots myself. Just enjoy growing them.
“It was a habit I got into in my younger days, when my then girlfriend was into horses and I’d bring a few along as an equine treat,” he recalled.
“Really impressed her. Been married for over 25 years.”
Down in Drizzle Creek around the debating table at the Bakery, it’s much the same.
I had been suggesting some nice walleye fillets, wrapped in two-piece packs, would be really appreciated. The information pretty much fell on deaf ears until I started delivering sacks of sweet corn.
The catch delivery picked up considerably.
Of course, I’m not sure it was conscience kicking it. More likely it was all that toast, peanut butter, and coffee had the crew so constipated they simply were out of sorts. A couple dozen ears of corn alleviated that condition and gave them a much sunnier outlook.
It also solved the problem of the two-hour coffee breaks as after 30 minutes, most were squirming and glancing at the washroom before, with a stiff-legged, tight-butted stride, they hurried off to the comfort and privacy of their own inner sanctum.
But my wife, the Pearl of the Orient, takes the cake for generosity. In my earlier “great white hunter” period, I had spent all one Saturday after ducks.
My total bag was one, which I carefully dressed and popped in the freezer. I then spent a week researching recipes, settling on roast wild duck with orange sauce and wild rice stuffing (um . . . umm).
I opened the freezer on the appointed day. It was gone. Someone had purloined my duck.
“Where’s my duck?” I wailed.
The Pearl snickered and then explained.
“Ellen said Ron went hunting all day and never got any ducks, so I told her Jack bagged lots.
“She begged me for just one as she planned a special meal, roast wild duck with orange sauce and wild rice stuffing, so I agreed and gave her your precious duck,” stated the Pearl, well-satisfied with her generosity.
“And don’t stick any more of your disgusting game in my freezer,” she forcefully suggested.
Have any of you ever had roast wild duck with orange sauce and wild rice stuffing? Is it good?