Gladys, at five months, presented her first egg on September 15, 2012.*
*We think. Got two Welsh Harlequin eggs that morning and as it seems it’s unusual to get two eggs from one duck on one day–at least, that’s what it says on the Internet!– we’re reasonably sure that one of them came from Gladys. Although, technically, they could have been Gladys’ all along, because of her developmental issues, we’re pretty sure the other eggs were Peep’s. Pretty sure.
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
Ducks cluck. It’s not exactly like a chicken cluck or a human what-a-shame-you-have-no-fashion-sense kind of cluck but a cluck all the same. In fact, one of my very kind neighbors told us just the other day how much she enjoys hearing our birds first thing in the morning. That’s right, ducks have start-of-day clucks (and pen-up time) clucks as well.*
It seems, actually, that the cluck serves as a kind of portmanteau vocalization. It’s the opposite of an alarm cry but it does catch your attention. It says hello and thank you and whassup. It’s a pleasurable accompaniment to an otherwise annoying weeding expedition. It’s a soothing conversation among them and with you.
And now that the Big Day** has arrived, we realize that ducks also have egg-laying clucks, too. It goes something like this:
Translated from the Duckish by the Author
“Egg coming.”
“Oooh, you go girl!”
“Yep.”
“Got it?”
[Plop.]
“Done.”
“Nice.”
“Thanks.”
When I first heard this hen party chitchat, like the guy in the St. Nicholas poem, I leapt from my bed to see what was the matter. We don’t have a sash but we do have heavy wooden blinds and I struggled to raise those as I peered through the slats, checking to see if Mr. Skunk or Mrs. Raccoon were still in the house, I mean, the yard. Thank goodness, no varmints.*** But the ducks were milling about cooing and clucking in the purpley light of just dawn. Something had disturbed them… Hmmn, maybe I better slip on those attractive garden clogs and take a stroll out there just to see.
They greeted their kibble (and me) with a few Welsh Harlequin quacks and further clucking. No nasty critters but, sure enough, an egg. Putting one and one together (two plus two is much too challenging before coffee…), I deduced that this special clucking must be the Egg Arrival Cluck. Convenient for collection purposes it, nonetheless, wakes them totally up and like toddlers, they weren’t going to just roll over and go back to sleep. As I stood there in my waffle robe and rubber mules****, I realized that, from now on, the Egg Laying Cluck would effectively serve as my Alarm Cluck.
Omelets, anyone?
*You may remember the blog entry about quacks. This is the cluck edition.
**What, it’s not on your calendar???
***Because, really, what was I going to do—throw a shoe at them from the second floor?
****Of course, it might just be Peep’s way of saying, girl-it’s-a-shame-you-have-no-fashion-sense.
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
Home sweet home.
Trick or treatin’ in the pumpkin patch.
It’s not a costume, I *am* the Easter Bunny!
Pretend I’m made of chocolate…
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
A stretch a day keeps the vet away.
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
Apparently, some unauthorized Wild Animal has been tearing up the turf and digging out its dinner** from our rather shaggy grass. I first noticed the excavation project the same morning our girls presented their first eggs. (Almost tripped over the gouge marks, truth be told.) What the ducks???!!! Looked like either a drunken golfer came by and left a bunch of monster divots or an unscheduled meteorite strike (or ten) left a pockmarked calling card on the greens. Either way, it certainly put a damper on my Egg Day enthusiasm, a side dish of anxiety along with the proto-omelets. (Oooo, yum.)***
As you can see, a creature—a clawed creature—dug a bunch of these holes in the lawn near the sunflower maze sometime on Saturday night. I mean, a few were a foot long and, as I found out later as I meandered to the composter, they were scattered all over the yard! The composter-adjacent one also had a scat accompaniment (okey doke, this food metaphor has officially gone too far), which only contributed further to the general sense of unease.
The Raccoon is in the House! The Raccoon is in the House! Run for your feathered lives!!!!!!!
Okay, okay, it’s cool. Be cool. Remember the first rule of Raccoon Club.
What? Oh, right. The first rule of Raccoon Club is…
PANIC!!!!
Run for your feathered lives!!!!
[This blog entry has been called on account of acute silliness. Please check in at a later time when a more mature duck owner will take over the keyboard. Thanks for following!]
*They’re welcome to my porridge and the rocking chair but leave my ducks alone! (Not to mention the bed….)
**Tonight we’re having Grubs á la Westchester.
***Next time, how about just some Tabasco?
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
A wind blew and a giant fell, the first of its fellows.
I grieved for the blueskyed moment
of its tallest grandeur
then gathered the pieces.
The birds found what I could not
a thousand futures where the sun once smiled.
We begin again.
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
Our public pool closed for the season yesterday but the duck pool is still going strong!
Pass the sunblock!
Bathing beauty.
Not shown: The mud we accidentally created when the pool was drained. *Sigh* Pass the pine chips!
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
You may laugh (go ahead, it’s ok!) but I called the vet on Friday just because Peep looked a little bit off. Nothing I could say for certain; she just seemed, well, out of it. She was standing apart from the other ducks, looking a bit weary, closing her eyes now and then. Symptoms of illness? Internal injury? The receptionist told me there were no appointments available but I could call first thing in the morning and see if they could squeeze her in. So to speak.
When I got the girls (and Puff)* out of their pen the next day, Peep, thank goodness, seemed to have recovered her equilibrium and, although I watched closely, showed no further signs of being sick or hurt. Tentatively optimistic, I nonetheless bounced around on the Internet, looking for insights on hen behavior. After all, she and Puff had been getting to know each other better and, jeez Louise, maybe that makes a difference. Could be it’s constitutionally more challenging when there’s a rooster around.**
This morning, all was revealed. Fuzzy-headed and garden clog-shod, I stumbled over to the pen with breakfast and the hose only to see five tail-wagging ducks and two items that weren’t in there the night before. Wh-wh-wh-what the duck….EGGS!
It was Sunday, rather on the early side but that didn’t stop me from shouting to Pamela.
“We got an egg! We got an egg!”
Sort of whitish, possibly Peep’s?
Apologies to my neighbors but I just couldn’t contain my glee.
Sort of grayish, possibly a Cayuga’s?
“No, strike that. We got two eggs!”
I clopped back to the house and pounded on the kitchen door. Pamela, mouthful of cereal and not exactly awake either, raised an eyebrow at the ruckus.
“I think I figured out why Peep was acting so weird!” I proclaimed as I waited for my daughter to grab some boots. “Come see, come see!”
“Ewwww, they’re dirty!” PJ shrieked. And she wasn’t wrong. Ducks don’t typically use a nesting box and even though I had moved the pen the night before, it’s hard to keep a rain-soaked lawn pristine.
“Don’t worry,” I said, breezily. “That’s normal.” Ahem.
As Pamela congratulated Peep on her milestone, I ran to get the camera and beheld the uncertainties of this new phase of duckness. Which one laid the other egg? Is it dirt or is that second egg really gray? How do we clean them? Are they safe to eat? Could they be fertile? Will the other two girls pitch in soon? Is this going to happen ever single day for a very long while? Is it probably just as well that Puff isn’t a girl after all?
Hmmn, sounds like we need to answer some questions before we can make an omelet.
Eggsactly!
Egg-making is hungry work.
*Arrgh, I knew this would be a pain!
**It takes a lot outta you to keep putting the seat down and rinsing the sink. So to speak.
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
It took some time and a raucously colored kiddie pool but we finally figured it out.
Yup, we got one.
ROOSTER IN THE HEN HOUSE!!!
Sigh.
Long-time (-suffering?) readers of this blog may recall our vague chagrin when we thought a few months ago that Peep might have been a male. Her coloration left it an open question but then when she achieved her first full-throated quack, the uncertainty evaporated. (Females are louder than the males. No jokes, please.*)
That said, we were not exactly duck experts and didn’t have a quack baseline for comparison so I thought it best to wait for egg production to erase any lingering doubts.** In May, we left the world of gender fuzziness for a future date. The penny dropped on Monday, September 3, 2012. Doubts and any naïve notions of Duck Girl Power floated away on a cloud of molted plumes. But I get slightly ahead of my story.
Somewhat strangely, it goes back to this question of “oh, you have ducks—are you going to build a pond?” Which to said frequent query, I typically respond, of course not, a pond is too much work, you have to get permits, keep it clean, all the experts say they don’t need a pond to live a good life, blahbedeblahbedeblah. Instead, we keep a large container (made for sheep) filled with fresh water and the girls love to use it for drinking, bathing and playing.
Right, playing. Chasing each other around. Canoodling, as it were.
Ahem.
Scroll down to last weekend when the weather finally downshifted to sub-hellish heights and I got it together to thoroughly scrub out the kiddie pool we had employed in their duckling days. My plan was just to put it in deep storage but Pamela intervened.
“Mama, Mama, can we please let the ducks swim in it? Pleeeeease!” she wheedled, effectively.
“Just this once, PJ,” I warned. “It takes too much water and it’s a pain in the neck to…” I continued but she couldn’t hear my whining over the high-pressure splashing of the hose.
The ducks milled about, intrigued but wary so Pamela chased each one down and plopped it in. Wow, what is this lovely sensation of floating? This liquidy freedom? This lighter than air…hey, what the ducks?
Bam!
I swear, Puff was in the water no more than three, maybe four seconds before he did the deed. He, yes, he managed to get much better acquainted with Peep, Bonnie and Fannie*** faster than you can say Casanova, don’t ask.
And there’s not much more to tell.
Apparently, ducks prefer (or require?) a certain amount of flotation before they can unleash their natural tendencies. The backyard shifted slightly as I replayed an array of details from previous weeks, realizing how much I had (willingly?) missed the cues. Oddly, the biggest disappointment was that I couldn’t come outside anymore and just say “hi girls!” Now I’d have to hail them with the awkward “hi girls and Puff!” Or, worse, strip away their femininity with the de-genderized “hey there” or, worse, “hey, guys!”
Well, at least, one thing is clear.
Now I know why Puff keeps coming to the window whenever my husband watches TV.
Hide the remote!
*That’s my department!
**I had some vague plan to install an EggCam, I guess.
***He seemed to have left Gladys alone, at least, that day.
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
“Good thing you don’t have to live off what you’re growing!” my mom chirruped when I called to lament my wizened cukes and ripe-resistant tomatoes.* Right, good thing. I mean, no not good! It’s true we hadn’t exactly planned to subsist entirely on rosemary, basil and ornamental corn but what the ducks, you gotta start somewhere!
Hrrumph.
Even the guy I buy my fowl feed from shrugged when I complained about my veggies’ surrender to heat and humidity. At least, you don’t have to live off them, he basically said*. Sure, but I thought I could get, like, a complete meal or two. I’m not a total novice! Look at my sunflowers!***
Grrrrr.
Okay, so in order to get a complete meal, my clearer head said, you have to plant a complete meal. Herbs and carrots do not a complete meal make. (A tasty side dish, maybe.) In the depths of our admittedly mild winter, when I poured over catalogs and fantasized over glossy possibilities, I had it all figured out. On paper. In the reality of Reality, weather, climate and the rest of my life intervened. (Oh, and the ducks.) This further strained my already meager ability to plant at optimal times, thin for improved yields and as for weeding? Well…
Despite all the challenges, I do have one plant story that, even with a few setbacks, culminated in a delicious (and buttery!) ending. Yes, that’s right, the potatoes. I know that this lowly, even despised starchy vegetable is abhorred more in the preparation than in the spud but still. Potatoes are really a wonderful food. And even though it’s not a rock star sort of veggie (what would be? eggplant? arugula?) its utter hominess is a large part of its charm.
Did I mention they’re not that hard to grow?
But, first, the setbacks. We had a soggy spring. Great for the lawn, dicey for the spuds. I started really early. In fact, I planted the first seed potatoes the day we got the ducklings. That was mid-April. (As I said, mild winter.) For weeks and weeks it seemed to stay kind of coldish and moistish and I distinctly remember waking up to another roof-tickling rain and thinking, there go the potatoes. And then, suddenly, bingo. Up come the vine tendrils. And they kept coming. Bigger and bigger, we hilled them as directed and waited for the flowers. Ours grew in Smart Bags seated in planters to keep them off the ground and away from foraging ducks (who weren’t even outside yet but would be soon enough.)
Beautiful baby Buttes!
I planted a second crop a week or two after the first (I forgot that I had them, actually, it was a crazy time) but they dutifully rooted and bloomed along with the first. Sometime come late June, early July, the vines started to look a little peaked and I began to wonder when I should harvest. After a bit of on-line research, I decided that I really should dig around (gently) and see if I could find any erstwhile taters. I kept putting it off and putting it off. Then Mom showed up.
End of May, going strong.
As it turned out, she had also ordered seed potatoes from the same company, Wood Prairie Farm in Bridgewater, ME, (she copied me!!!) and had started them weeks after I had. Hers weren’t ready yet but based on the vine die-back, we decided mutually that there really didn’t seem to be any reason for me to put off digging. So with my mom as Motivator-in-Chief, I stuck my hand in the dark loam and dug.
Mid-June, at the height of their blooming.
I found one! I found one!
First tater!
Gingerly, I noodled around further but, alas, no more potato joy. I decided to quit while I was somewhat ahead and leave it for another day.
Later that night, however, Mom said casually that she expected about “fifty pounds” of potatoes from her container and so, evidence to the contrary, I brazenly began to prepare for at least twice that (I had two containers, right?) Concerned that I lacked sufficient storage space for 100 pounds of potatoes, I called Maine again and asked whether or not they recommended leaving the ripened potatoes in the Smart Bags. They did not. Considering it was only July and I didn’t expect my normal storage area (the garage, no A/C, of course) to drop the necessary 50 degrees any time soon, I cleared out some space in the pantry and called the company once more, this time to order storage bags. (Refrigeration is not recommended as it changes the consistency of the vegetable.)
When the bags arrived (gigantic ones, mind you) I screwed up my courage to the sticking point and prepared to get some dirt under my fingernails. Many of the on-line experts recommend dumping your whole container onto a tarp or similar material and picking out the potatoes that way. Great advice but not when you’re dealing with an enormous pound bag of well-watered soil and probable vegetables that’s plopped inside of another container about two feet off the ground.
I kept digging.
To make too long a story short(er), I dug and dug and dug and harvested all of the potatoes. All five pounds of them. Five pounds total!!! They were very nice potatoes, the All-Blues a pretty purplish shade and the Buttes decently sized with few blemishes. But five pounds total?! What did I (not) do wrong?!
Yesterday I called the nice folks at the potato farm (yet again) and recounted my sad tale. Was it just me (probably) or should I have expected to get more yield from five pieces of seed potato per bag? (The potatoes, especially the Buttes, I hasten to point out, were absolutely delicious. I mashed up one for Pamela the first day and could not get over the flavor excitement—this from a lowly potato!)
According to what I learned from Wood Prairie, my mother’s estimates were wildly optimistic. (Ha!) There were, shall we say, urban legends about people who planted in some ad hoc container and reaped 100 pounds of starch sustenance but this was a highly unlikely outcome. Under normal, well-watered conditions, the rule of spud is for every pound of seed you plant, you can expect ten pounds of potato. Since I planted the maximum for each bag—a whopping eight ounces of seed!—my five pound yield was, in fact, completely respectable.
So there!
Hmmn, wonder how many pounds my mother got?
Pamela’s Favorite Mashed Potatoes
Bay leaf and garlic suggested by Joy of Cooking (1975 version)
Ricer recommended by my mother-in-law and, by golly, she’s right!
1 decent-size russet or other all-purpose potato
1 clove of garlic, minced
1 bay leaf
Sea salt
Pepper
Best butter you can get
Half & half or, if you prefer, milk
Peel and slice potato and place in small pot. Just cover with water. Add minced garlic, bay leaf, a bit of salt and pepper. Bring to gentle boil and cook for about 15 minutes or until potato is done but not too too soft. Drain water and remove bay leaf. Rice potato directly into the serving bowl (or use hand-mixer or just mash with a fork.) Slice an agreeable amount of butter onto the piping hot potato and mix it in. Add enough of the dairy product of your choice to make as creamy as you like. Salt and pepper to taste. Serve immediately to hungry child (or yourself!)
*We have since greeted the arrival of a few ripened fruits. Not holding my breath (or the pasta sauce.)
**What is he, my mom?
***Sunflowers are like dandelions–they’ll grow anywhere. Doesn’t count.
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
Recently I realized the world might be divided into two different sorts of people: Those who use hammocks and those who buy hammocks then let them sit there collecting leaves and mildew, never to actually use them, perchance just to dream of such use.
Guess which camp I fall into?
Uh, Gladys, I think the pool is closed.
Happy Belated Labor Day, folks…now back to work.** (sigh)
*Don’t worry, not talking politics, I promise you. (If you can believe a promise given in an election year, that is!)
**And to school! Almost made it to peace and quiet. If only I could find a pre-K program for the ducks…
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
Quick! What’s your answer: the iPod, the massage chair, the ability to order a Domino’s Pizza without getting off the couch? Buzzzzzz. Time’s up. Actually, if you were a fourth-grader in my daughter’s class this past year, you would have been given a list of technologies among which you could choose (and there was not one medical device upon it!*)
If memory serves me–and it frequently doesn’t– the list included:
1. Television
2. Computer
3. Oven
4. Telephone
5. Refrigerator
(What, no, air-conditioning??? What planet do these guys live on?**)
As part of the assignment, Pamela had to contact ten different people and ask them this same question. The responses surprised (and annoyed) her—nine out of ten folks said the same thing! (The exception was a fellow child and you can guess which technology attracted him the most. Not TV but close.) I guess PJ was irritated because she expected a more diverse response (first lesson, junior scientist, keep an open mind!) but, really, if you’re an adult, there’s only one answer.
That’s right, the computer.
Oops, no, that’s what people do, not what people say.*** What people said was, of course, the refrigerator. That’s because grown-ups know that you can actually live without artificial entertainment, you can presumably heat up your food on a rock or eat it cold (raw?), you can manage without talking to people on the phone but without a refrigerator, no cold breakfast pizza.
And who could live without that?
*Because they were going into the fifth grade not their fifth decade!
**Oh, it says right here: the Martian Educational Publishing Company. Of course.
***I’m doing it right now!
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
Haven’t seen ’em.
A concerned citizen called me the other day to make sure all my ducks were in a row. Or at least in my backyard. Her handyman had come to the door and said he had just seen some chickens on her front lawn. Chickens? But I don’t have any chickens (I paraphrase her thought.) Maybe they were Lori’s ducks!
Having just been out back playing with the ducks (well, Pamela was playing, not sure about me–or the ducks, for that matter!) I thanked her but said all ducks were present and accounted for. So what feathered creature had come to visit our small but bird-crowded neck of Westchester woods?
We were reasonably sure no one around here had chickens. We knew one, maybe two other folks who had ducks but they were unlikely to have (willingly) traveled that far from their comfy homes. Wild turkey? Could be. They’re natives, they do wander and anything’s possible but could this guy really mistake a turkey for a chicken? (Maybe a poult for a chick but where was the mom?!)
PJ and I took a detour later that day to scope out the cul-de-sac in question, eager to spot potential poultry on the lam. Nada de pollo–not even an empty Taco Bell container! We were, however, infused with a warm feeling of community. It’s very nice to discover we have neighbors who look out for one another (waterfowl included!) After all, you never know when you might need help with a runaway chicken or a wandering duck.
Or maybe a goose on the loose?
Later spotted crossing the street…guineas gone wild!
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
“I don’t want to go out to dinner tonight,” my husband floated his unsolicited opinion several hours before most folks’ stomachs would have gurgled a first grumble. Maybe it was the fact that I had already made a pancake breakfast and a pasta lunch (going for the home-cooked trifecta, was he?) Maybe it was the fact that it was early afternoon and I hadn’t left the house except to feed the ducks (and the cupboard was so bare there were dust bunnies where the victuals should have been.) Maybe this was his sideways pledge to “eat better” after ten days on the road and a public declaration always makes it more official (and most restaurants around here are just not worth the calories?)
Whatever his reasons, I just smiled and said. Dinner? No prob. We’re having fish.
#####
For years, I admit to being intimidated by seafood—choosing, buying, handling, preparing, even eating (bones, yikes!) In truth, I still resist the lure of the mollusk* but I’ve gotten much less fearful of the merely finned. Now it’s my go-to protein either in sushi (a typical lunch) or (at dinner) simply broiled in the oven. It may take some planning to go get the fish but otherwise, it’s much less hassle than, say, a stew or a casserole. Plus, it cooks much faster, tastes much fresher and doesn’t need many ingredients to pull off. So, everybody into the water—fish is a great dish!
Fish Tips for the Unschooled**
Find a fishmonger you like and trust. If it’s summer, they may offer ice to help keep your expensive purchase edible. I also keep insulated shopping bags in my car to further protect cold foods. I may be old-school (again! sorry!) but I avoid buying fish on Sundays since most markets are closed. My fave sushi place in L.A. wasn’t open that day and I figured they would know best.
You can use fish tweezers (not pricey, a couple of bucks) if you want to double-check the fishmonger’s plucking skills. Run your finger against the grain of the flesh to feel out where any errant bones may be.
Those of us who love fish realize that many species are over-harvested. You can check out the Monterey Bay Aquarium’s website or others for guidelines on choosing a fish you can feel good about eating.
Federal guidelines on fish consumption and mercury can be found here.
In addition, U.S. law mandates that fish must be labeled with country of origin. You can also factor this in when making your purchase.
For overall tips on buying fish, see here.
Fast Fish Times Two
Broiled Salmon
(inspired by an ad from the Norwegian fishing industry)
Prep time: 2 minutes
Cook time: 8 minutes
2-4 four-ounce salmon filets, skin on, about the same size and thickness; bones removed
Extra virgin olive oil
Fresh dill
Fresh lemon
Sea salt
Pepper
Turn on oven broiler. Place filets skin down on a baking pan. Slice lemon and squeeze juice over the filets. Drizzle each with olive oil, sprinkle with salt and pepper then rip some fresh dill off of stems and place on top of the fish. (Reserve some lemon and dill for serving.)
Broil salmon for approximately four minutes (watch for burning) then carefully tent with tin foil. Continue broiling until cooked to your preference, generally another 4 minutes or so.
Delicious with warm farro salad in a dill shallot vinaigrette.
Tuna Pepper Steak
Prep time: 1 minute
Cook time: 8 minutes
2 four–ounce tuna steaks
Extra virgin olive oil
Sea salt
Black pepper
Heat well-oiled grill pan on med-high. Add tuna steaks; sprinkle with salt and pepper (don’t be shy with the pepper.) Cook approximately 4 minutes on one side, flip, add pepper and a little more salt, cook 3-4 more minutes or until done to your preference. (Cooking time is mostly a function of the thickness of the steaks. You will have to keep an eye on them but it’s fast!)
Try with basmati rice and roasted cherry tomatoes.
*A real culinary loss when spending any time in France or Italy, alas.
**Sorry!
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater
Had a wife but couldn’t keep her
Put her in a pumpkin shell
There he kept her very well.
Traditional nursery rhyme*
Not really sure what’s eating or, to be precise, attempting to eat our pumpkins but not taking (too many) chances. Absolutely refuse to live in the pumpkin patch with ’em, though. (Sorry, Andrew!**)
Squirrel, raccoon, other?
*Exactly what kind of tradition are we, er, espousing here?
** My husband. Come to think of it, he does eat pumpkin. Don’t get any ideas, mister….! 🙂
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
Terrible pun, I know. And, although I can not fully comprehend the art of poor Vincent, I will say this: wow, did he get the power of sunflower! If you can stand it, take one more stroll through our sunflowers and prepare to be a-mazed. (Oops, I did it again!)*
*Did I just make an inadvertent Britney Spears reference? Yikes!
For more on the subject of Vincent van Gogh’s sunflowers, try here and here.
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
When it comes to ducks, they can hide but they can’t really hide. (And they sure do try!)
Peep tries camouflage, sort of. (Can you spot one more?)
Hiding in plain sight.
Hiding’s hard work.
Who’s in my planter bed again?
The End.
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
Unquestionably, our finest crop this year has been sunflowers. Unfortunately, we don’t really eat them. Squirrels, ducks, goldfinches and other critters beat us to the savory bits. But if there’s one creature this summer that thrived on our giant helianthus it would have to be the bee. Now if we could only figure out where they keep the honey…aw, let ’em have it!
Make honey while the sun shines.
Almost quittin’ time.
Hey, you missed a spot!
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
It’s hot as heck and I can’t take it anymore!!!! Actually, home again in Westchester, it’s rather cooler than it’s been but bugs and sticky stuff persist. We packed our bags mid-August to try and escape the swelter only to experience record-setting 100 degree temps in normally milder Paris. (And that’s scary stuff over there. No A/C in many places and a real health hazard for many folks.)
The worst part of weather soup is stagnant air. We’ve lost countless veggies to the toxic combination of humidity and no wind. I’ve seen baby pumpkins that were fine in the morning, covered in a mold by sundown and gone the next day. Tomatoes and cucumbers succumbing to the dismals. In the pumpkin patch, the lilacs started the powdery mildew problem but the turgid conditions wrote the sad ending. (It also didn’t help than I penned them in too tightly to avoid the ducks. Overcrowding is bad for people and plants.)
I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of this stickiness. Do you think it’s any cooler at the North Pole? Get Santa on the phone and see if he needs any seasonal help.
Something rotten in the state of Pumpkinville.
Serious protection (I think.)
The one on the left already got nibbled.
The heartbreak of powdery mildew.
And check out these wacky cukes! *sigh*
Beauty is only rind-deep. We cut into a tiny one and it smelled delicious…still haven’t dared to eat it!
One pepper to rule them all.
Or one pumpkin…
Easy, peasy…at least, we have more peas!
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
One glance at the menu (in French, naturellement) and I knew I would have to order carefully. Very carefully. As my grasp of the French language is just enough to be dangerous, knowing when I was actually ordering duck was an inexact science. Duck, like chicken, appeared under different words or by different parts and before you knew it, you might be eating Puff or Peep’s distant relative and feeling full blast your 10 ¾ -year-old’s ire.
“If you ever eat duck, I will never speak to you again!!!” were Pamela’s semi-exact words. As quiet as my post-duck-meal life might be, I nevertheless opted to avoid dining on waterfowl. Problem is, in France, that means missing out on half the fun or, at least, half the menu.
When we left our feathered friends in New York for a pleasant jaunt to Paris, I quickly realized we had entered a city not just of Light, but of Duck Eaters. (First hurdle: skipping the smoked duck appetizer on the Air France premium economy platter.) Although I’d been to France often before, it was only recently* that I noticed just how much canard they cooked.** Most Americans are familiar with foie gras but that controversial ingredient is merely an entrée to a vast selection that includes such duck-based options as:
Magret de canard roti (roasted duck breast)
Brick de canard aux champignons (duck with mushrooms)
Confit de canard (according to my handy Merriam-Webster’s, duck preserved in fat)
Or this double-down opportunity from one of my fave restos, Le Petit Pontoise:
Parmentier de canard au foie gras poêlé (duck with duck liver—qwack!!!)
In Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Julia Child, et. al., declared that “only the genuine duckling”… “a bird under 6 months” is good for roasting. The ladies then go on for several pages offering variations on the roasted duckling theme. (Ooh, yummy…no, wait–I mean, not yummy. Sorry!) Hmmn, six months. Since our girls are just coming up on the 19-week mark, maybe we should consider keeping them out of sight for another couple of weeks. No telling if there’s any outlaw foodie foragers on the loose, right? Sacre bleu! Time to get back on that double-decker jumbo jet!***
We rolled in late the other night and I quickly grabbed a flashlight and headed to the duck pen to say hi. (They said quack back.) As much as we had enjoyed time away from our mosquito-ridden, powdery-mildewed backyard, we really missed our birds and their cheerful waddling ways. But if there’s one thing I learned from our time on the Continent, it’s this: The French do have a word for duck.
Dinner.
* Ok, I guess I’m a little sensitized to All Things Duck at this point.
** They also cook their geese. (And stuff its liver. But no foie gras d’oie this trip. Probably falls under the spirit if not the letter of Pamela’s law.)
***Our first return flight was cancelled and I had to drag myself, two bagged cats and Pamela around Charles de Gaulle airport multiple times. Zut alors!
Copyright 2012, Lori Fontanes
What the Ducks! 