Hello ducky..
Words from a Bird. Day 11
The hunter/gatherer I happen to share my house with came home with a feathered offering on Saturday. Two whole ducks. The look I gave him said it all....
What do you expect me to do with them?
Unless food comes into my house nestled in a carrier bag and sporting a bar code, I am not really interested. Don't get me wrong, I like to know that the life my food has led prior to being incinerated has been a happy and full (if short) one, but far be it for me to take away the jobs of all those hard working people who get it from grass to trolley.
There have been occasions when I have prepared and eaten food that son number 2 has shot; my fillings could tell you a tale or two, that's for sure. So I said to Bear Grylls, in his khaki safari suit, standing there clutching the aforementioned ducks, 'You pluck them, I'll cook them'.
Now, on Saturday night, in conversation with three of the four children, I asked them if they wanted to come to lunch on Sunday. 'What's on offer?' asked son number 1. (Can you sense his priorities?) 'Roast beef', I replied, unless your dad plucks the ducks, in which case, we'll be having them'. Our children know their dad well.... 'Will you be doing Yorkshire pudding with that beef?'
Sunday dawns, bright and sunny, and the husband, armed with rubber gloves and safety goggles, disappears into the garage with Donald and Daisy.
After much procrastination and some rather fowl (sorry) language, I heard a power tool being fired up. Too scared to see with my own eyes what he was up to, I waited......
Half an hour later, Bear Grylls re-entered the kitchen, covered with feathers (as was the dog) goggles on his head....turns out that plucking a duck straight from the fridge is not the best way to do it. It was at this point that he had kick-started the electric sander with a view to removing the feathers more quickly. So it did work to a certain degree, no feathers, but also not much meat left. Mind you, what was left had a lovely shine to it......
My lovely Italian friend took what was left of Donald and Daisy. No part of an animal is safe with her, and she had plans to boil the feet.
I am hoping that she was talking about the ducks and not the husband.......
The hunter/gatherer I happen to share my house with came home with a feathered offering on Saturday. Two whole ducks. The look I gave him said it all....
What do you expect me to do with them?
Unless food comes into my house nestled in a carrier bag and sporting a bar code, I am not really interested. Don't get me wrong, I like to know that the life my food has led prior to being incinerated has been a happy and full (if short) one, but far be it for me to take away the jobs of all those hard working people who get it from grass to trolley.
There have been occasions when I have prepared and eaten food that son number 2 has shot; my fillings could tell you a tale or two, that's for sure. So I said to Bear Grylls, in his khaki safari suit, standing there clutching the aforementioned ducks, 'You pluck them, I'll cook them'.
Now, on Saturday night, in conversation with three of the four children, I asked them if they wanted to come to lunch on Sunday. 'What's on offer?' asked son number 1. (Can you sense his priorities?) 'Roast beef', I replied, unless your dad plucks the ducks, in which case, we'll be having them'. Our children know their dad well.... 'Will you be doing Yorkshire pudding with that beef?'
Sunday dawns, bright and sunny, and the husband, armed with rubber gloves and safety goggles, disappears into the garage with Donald and Daisy.
After much procrastination and some rather fowl (sorry) language, I heard a power tool being fired up. Too scared to see with my own eyes what he was up to, I waited......
Half an hour later, Bear Grylls re-entered the kitchen, covered with feathers (as was the dog) goggles on his head....turns out that plucking a duck straight from the fridge is not the best way to do it. It was at this point that he had kick-started the electric sander with a view to removing the feathers more quickly. So it did work to a certain degree, no feathers, but also not much meat left. Mind you, what was left had a lovely shine to it......
My lovely Italian friend took what was left of Donald and Daisy. No part of an animal is safe with her, and she had plans to boil the feet.
I am hoping that she was talking about the ducks and not the husband.......
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