I remember heading home one beautiful July evening many years ago. We lived in Western Washington, and the trees towered over the road, and everything had a slightly green cast as the light filtered down. Suddenly, as we rounded a curve, the trees cleared and right in front of us were the Cascades. They were snow capped and awe-inspiring, looming over the landscape in stark contrast to the forests all around me. In the backseat, my children— essentially natives to this land of tide pools and cedars, of mountains and rushing rivers— started another round of Silly Songs with Larry. I was struck by how normal this majesty was to their eyes, how absolutely mundane the breathtaking beauty seemed to them.
What you know is, well… known. It takes something new and different to bring you back to a feeling of excitement.
For us, chicks have becoming the known. Twice a year, we go to the post office and collect our box of Red Stars, Americaunas, Black Stars, Rhode Island Reds, or Barred Rocks. We set up our little nursery pen, fill the feeders and waterers, flip on the lights, and start the countdown until the chirping chickens can be relocated to the hen house outside.
Don’t get me wrong. We still enjoy it. It’s just… well, the magic is gone, if you know what I mean.
And then, we got ducklings.
And the world melted.
It was something of a whim, as we really hand’t planned on adding ducks to our farm. However, my husband and I happened to be at a local farm store when a clerk was marking down some week-old ducklings. With a chicken egg allergy in the house, duck eggs are an attractive alternative. Add to that the fact that we really, really like roast duck and, well, why not?
We waited a couple of days to get our plans and equipment in place, and then Christopher randomly hustled six expectant and totally in the dark kiddos to the van for a surprise outing. I wasn’t at the store when they clued in, but I did get to see the looks on their faces when they came home. Trust me, it was priceless.
We ended up with three Pekin ducks (often called “Peking ducks”)— the kind Ping is in the classic The Story about Ping by Marjorie Flack (affiliate link).
And they are cute. Like, really, really cute. They chirp, they waddle, they splash water, they wiggle their tails, they cock their heads and seem to grin at you behind their intelligent little eyes.
I-have-to-check-on-them-before-breakfast, distract-me-from-my-schoolwork cute. Stand-around-and-laugh-at-their-antics cute.
Even I am smitten. Folks, I don’t get terribly attached to most farm animals. And I’m kind of in love with these guys.
As of yet, they’re not named. We don’t know what combination of male and female we have, either. All we know is that we have a serious case of cute, fluffiness on our hands, and, God willing, some tasty eggs coming. But probably not roast duck. This is too much cuteness to serve for Christmas dinner.
