Duck Eggs

duck eggs

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

 

 

 

 

 

Mother’s Day

photo 1 (2)

I have never been a huge fan of the commercial side of any of these ‘days’ that litter our calendar.  It seems to me that if you cannot appreciate that person all the time, then showering someone with a card and gifts one day in the year is not going to absolve you of your miscreant behaviour for the other 364.

However, that doesn’t mean I am not a little bit partial to a home made card and a bunch of flowers.  Because that’s the kind of girl I am.  Full of double standards.

So although I am not interested in shop bought cards and fancy gifts, I do enjoyed being spoilt.  And I feel as though, this year, it has been pitched just right.

The wee boy made his card at kindergarten a few days ago, which has meant that the beautiful card has been sitting on top of the piano since Thursday.  Then yesterday, after defrosting from being outside at the Spring Fayre for four hours doing the smoothie bike, (which reminds me, all the cake got sold so they must have tasted ok – big tick for courgette cake there then) my beautiful man and the wee one ventured out on a mission to buy take away pizza and returned with that AND a bunch of flowers.  My favourite of which was the rose bud which had obviously fallen off but had been pushed back into the bunch so as not to lose the aesthetics.

But my favourite bit of Mother’s Day was something the wee boy and I do often.  We hang out together in the bath.  Today we played, amongst other things, ‘I spy’.  And as we’re lying there together, enjoying each other’s company and making each other laugh, I squeeze him tightly, and think how lucky I am to have all the wonderful people in my life that I do.

Of all these people in my life, there is just one person I would have loved to share all this with, but sadly, never got the chance.  Someone I know would have understood implicitly the unconditional love I have for my wee boy, and be as genuinely delighted as I am to revel in the games played and tales told.

My mum.