Duck eggs are absolutely beautiful. They have this almost translucent shell which looks so fragile and yet is very tough. Harder to crack, I think, than a hen’s egg. Moreover, they have an elegance to them which is captivating. Rather like the difference between DIY store and Farrow & Ball paint. And, being that little bit larger than a hen’s egg, they fit into the palm of my hand beautifully.
Not so good on toast though.
The reason why I occasionally buy them is because I love how they transform a run of the mill, everyday victoria sponge cake into something slightly more luxurious. There is a depth of taste there that you just don’t get when you bake with hen’s eggs. Which is what I was looking for this weekend as I spent Saturday afternoon hanging out with two fabulous women, discussing very important things. Well, important to us. And in my world, it is crucial to have good cake when beginning something that will change yours, and other people’s children’s future.
However, baking with the duck egg is not without it’s hazards. I have not yet made a victoria sponge where the sponge hasn’t verged on the descent into oblivion, otherwise known as a biscuit. Moreover, I still seem to be having difficulty with the heat of my not so new to me now, electric oven. Work in progress I think.
So here we are on Mother’s Day, again. The speed at which days are flying by is frightening. It only seems like yesterday that we were bunking down for the festive season and now we are opening up for spring, and the endless conversations about not having enough time to clean. Or is that just me?
I always try and spend some time on Mother’s Day reflecting on the beauty of both life and death. Inevitably, the wee boy and I have a conversation about death, my favourite of which was not today, but very recently.
Wee boy: Mummy, when you die do you want to be buried or cremated?
Me: I want to be cremated and my ashes planted with a seed which will grow to be a tree
Wee boy: When I die, I want to buried under your tree
Being Nigella 