Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Just a Chicken about Ducks
Funny timing.
Here, the devine Blogzira writes about what happy duck famililes are doing to push her over into the vegetable garden. Permanently.
While, here, the bloodthirsty Mr. Sgazzetti smacks his soon-to-be-chomping lips at pictures of frozen geese and ducks parked in a grocery freezer, like cordwood ready to fuel his upcoming holiday festivities.
I'd have to side with Blogzira on this. I was never much for geese or ducks anyway. Especially ducks.
Chickens, I'm o.k. with. I mean, as far as stuffing, frying, raosting, and eating them. There's a poem by Pablo Neruda regarding chickens. Can't think of it right now; I'll stop by later to append it here. Basically, he writes of them as having eyes of nothingness. No souls. No life.
But, ducks? Well, ducks are the closest bird to human that I can think of. Can't do the eating thing anymore. In the bowels of childhood memories, there are the cartoon ducks that always seem put upon. I laughed at Daffy and Donald then.
Now, older and while possibly not wiser, at least wizened, I empathize with both Donald and Daffy. Especially Daffy. Eating Daffy would tilt dangerously close to self-cannibalism. First, there's the bill, the ridiculous bill. Then there's the waddle, the dark pin pricks of eyes, the pert tail feathers, and, finally, the imagined stream of words they quack at me.I'm a wuss about ducks.
My son volunteered one summer at a bird rescue organization in Delaware. He already loved birds so it wasn't a question of how he'd handle the responsibilities. What was most difficult for him was leaving each day because ducks and ducklings followed him around most of the day, quacking their suggestions and thanks. As a kid, when we visited the Philly Zoo, he'd hang around the ponds and streams just staring at the ducks. White tigers? Naked mole rats? Nope, hardly a glance. But a wood duck or even an everyday mallard? He'd be hooked for half an hour.
One summer, I'd picked up a box of ducklings to take to a friend who wanted to re-stock her pond. All the way home, the high-pitched quack-pips were a joy. Once in a while, one of the bolder birds would stick its head through one of the breathing holes, just checking to see that I was paying attention to the road and not to them. How could I even think of eating these beauties? I'd have to be mad. Mad, I tell you! It was hard enough parting with the dozen ducklings after only an hour's time with them. How could I ever willingly bite down hard on their flesh?
I'm with you, Blogzira. It'll only be a matter of time before Mr. Sgazzetti changes his bird tune; his son Adam looks like a duck-lover to me. And I don't mean a lover of eating ducks.
Comments:
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There is another, less benign reason why I don't munch on duck - it really disagrees with my system. I've had it several times, and generally like the flavour, but oh! the restless night that follows!! I will forever remember the night I had honey-glazed, triple-fried duck at a chinese restaurant (in Vienna, of all places). I can recall the flavour, and I can recall the aftermath. A repeat of either these sensations would probably do me in.
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