That first egg of the season; how I anticipate it. Ducks normally start producing before the end of January (although they failed to do so this year, adding to the economic gloom) and the geese traditionally deliver on Valentines Day.
Duck eggs are truly celebrated as my culinary egg of choice, and a flurry of scrambled eggs, omelettes, egg mayo and boiled eggs with toasted soldiers are eaten with gluttonous glee in those first weeks. My white Aylesbury’s are hopeless mothers; they may have all the charm of Jemima Puddleduck, their forte growing large and meaty and laying, but they can’t do the former if they fanny around for four weeks keeping a clutch of eggs toasty.
Geese are brilliant parents, but they lay far too many of their huge eggs to keep them all warm, so I leave them with a sensible number, collect the surplus, and put them with the ducks’ into incubators. You can worry a lot about a sitting goose; for thirty-one days they eat practically nothing, even though I put a bowl of fresh corn by her each morning. She’ll get off the nest once a day to suck a mouthful of water and snatch some grass, and go back to the job in hand. The goose will lose an enormous amount of weight; her fat reserves go, the feathers go dry and brittle, and there is none of the usual chubbily overfilled nappy effect dangling between the legs.
When the new goslings finally come out of their hut, down what for them must be an Everest of a ramp, the sitting goose is surprisingly not central to the outing; she is off, heading for food, like the starving animal she is. Instead, the eldest goose takes charge. And with the goslings on the scene the gander finally forsakes fornication and takes up position as prime protector; each time the gawky young wander away he nudges them back with his beak. I can’t get near without a major pecking and blast of eardrum shattering honking; it’s the best protection racket in the animal kingdom.
The first time I used an incubator I spent inordinate parts of the day watching the temperature gauge, ensuring perfect humidity and checking that the turning cradle was working. When I heard the eggs chirrup I nearly jumped out of my skin. I cheeped at the incubator, leaning in close, and back it came. This game went on for hours; I must have worn out those ducklings, and they still needed the energy to hatch, which they did.
Anyone who has watched an egg crack and reveal its treasure will know that neither chicks nor ducklings nor goslings emerge dry, fluffy or cute. First the bill or beak wavers through the crack, and a slimy, bulgy eyed head, far too big for its body, appears. There is intense wriggling to cast off the shell and then, exhausted by the physical jerks, the beast from outer space lies quiet, soaked fluff stirring in the current from the incubator fan. Within twenty-four hours, the picture book baby bird takes over from the alien creature and the fun starts.
Published in The Landsman April/May 2009 Issue 13
