The dairy/corner store/convenience store/superette/whatever-these-places-are-called-in-your-neck-of-the-woods and the Homestead have a bit of an understanding when it comes to duck eggs.
It all started on one of those days when it feels the whole universe is conspiring against you and the only answer is chocolate: lots of it and immediately. Loose change was rustled up and The Goat Herd staggered across the road and straight into a conversation in full swing between a driver of one of those huge drain steam cleaner trucks and Christina, one quarter of the dairy-across-the-road family. The subject: ducks; more specifically duck eggs and the kiwi inability to understand the superiority of these over the insipid, undersized, inferior chicken equivalent. Did I mention both Christina and the truck driver once called Taiwan home?
Once the chocolate had been ingested and the world was looking slightly rosier, a round table discussion decided a dozen of Felicity, Gwen and Hilda’s finest should be trayed up and ferried across the road. it just seemed a nice thing to do. This small gift was received with such rapturous delight that a plan was mooted: six duck eggs per week delivered every Saturday. No, we do not require payment for this (bearing in mind that these were the people that, just on the off-chance, kept a couple of loaves out the back for us the first day the bread truck made it across the bridge, post-quake), which has afforded us the label: “Mugs”.
We could have changed a couple of dollars an egg, apparently. But then we would never have learnt about Zhōngqiū Jié, Mid-Autumn Festival, or tasted the delicious mooncakes that are central to this celebration of harvest thanksgiving. Then there was the gift of six of our eggs up-cycled through a process of brining into salty, creamy deliciousness. For a couple of weeks, the early season Homestead salads were just that little bit more exciting, with a tiny hint of the exotic.
Last night during that end of weekend, pre dinner lull, Christina’s smiley face appeared at our kitchen window.
“Dumplings!” she said, thrusting a tray into The Bean Counter’s hands. “Like a bombe, but not.”
Yep, we could have charged two whole dollars an egg; instead we didn’t and we’ve got to sample a whole new world.