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| Ducks and hen eggs uncovered on Little Utah Farm |
Every morning I go on an egg hunt. It is really fun. I feel happy and curious like a child while I search for the eggs.
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| Lolli, Ducky, and Daisy slurp up some snow after foraging through the garden. Little Utah Farm. |
We have 3 Buff Orpington ducks. Their names are Lolli, Daisy, and Ducky. Some of their nests are so nice that the hens prefer to lay their eggs right in with the larger white duck eggs. I can tell who is who. The Aracana, Pearle and Isis, lay beautiful blue-green eggs. The White Plymouth, Angel and Fae lay pale light brown eggs. The Giant Black Jersey, Maven, lays a similar light brown egg. And they look so pretty all together in the nest.
Duck eggs are different than chicken eggs. I think they tast same but some people swear there is a difference. The only difference I can see is the size and the fact that Duck eggs have less water content in the white portion. They cook faster.
The ducks dig the nest deep and line it with an intricate weave of straw and feathers till it makes a nice shape, like an upside down crown of a straw hat. After they lay their eggs, they cover everything up with straw till it is even with the ground. I have to stick my hand down into the straw and wiggle my fingers around to find those eggs.
Sometimes I find a duck egg lying in the center of the coop as if it just fell out on the way to a nest. And it probably did. One of the ducks, I think it is Daisy, has been doing that since she began laying in the fall. I also find an occasional egg in the shallow pond or on the grass lawn. It makes me laugh.
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| 8 Eggs gathered in one day. Little Utah Farm |
We share our eggs with our neighbors and in town. With 8 hens and 3 ducks I gather at least 5 eggs a day. Some days, like yesterday, I gather 8. That adds up fast!
I am about to go out this morning on another egg hunt. I would love to have one of those egg pocket aprons. I think I will sew my own before spring gets here.
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| Deborah Moon Moen |
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Until next time, I found a story for you to enjoy.
“I have never before gathered eggs from under a hen. Fernando has never before seen a hen. We bend low into the shed where perch a dozen or so fat lady birds. There's no shrieking or fluttering at all. I approach one and ask if she has an egg or two. Nothing. I ask in Italian. Still nothing. I ask Fernando to pick her up but he's already outside the shed smoking and pacing, telling me he really doesn't like eggs at all and he especially doesn't like frittata. Both bold-faced lies. I start to move the hen and she plumps down from her perch quite voluntarily, uncovering the place where two lovely brown eggs sit. I take them, one at a time, bend down and nestle them in my sack. I want two more. I peruse the room. I choose the hen who sits next to the docile one. I pick her up and she pecks me so hard on my wrist that I drop her. I see there is nothing in her nest and apologise for my insensitivity, thinking her nastiness must have been caused by embarrassment. I move on to another hen and this time find a single, paler brown-shelled beauty, still warm and stuck all over with bits of straw. I take it and leave with an unfamiliar thrill. This is my first full day in Tuscany and I've robbed a henhouse before lunch.
Back home in the kitchen I beat the eggs, the yolks of which are orange as pumpkin, with a few grindings of sea salt, a few more of pepper, adding a tablespoon or so of white wine and a handful of Parmigliano. I dig for my flat broad frying pan, twirl it to coat its floor with a few drops of my tourist oil, and let it warm over a quiet flame. I drop in the rinsed and dried blossoms whole, flatten them a bit so they stay put, and leave them for a minute or so while I tear a few basil leaves, give the eggs another stroke or two. I throw a few fennel seeds into the pan to scent the oil, where the blossoms are now beginning to take colour on their bottom sides. Time to liven up the flame and add the egg batter. I perform the lift-and-tilt motions necessary to cook the frittata without disturbing the blossoms, which are now ensnared in the creamy embrace of the eggs. Next, I run the lush little cake under a hot grill to form a gold blistery skin on top before sliding it onto a plate, strewing it with torn basil. The heat of the eggs warms the herbs so they give up a double-strength perfume. Now I drop a thread of find old balsamico over it. And finally, let it rest.”
― Marlena de Blasi
