So, a very kind gentleman returned to our restaurant during a recent lunchtime looking for one of his favorite orders, our daily  frittata. Unfortunately, the frittata was in the midst of preparation and had yet to enter the oven. I suggested one special after another but nothing seemed to suit his taste of the moment.  I soon learned the reason why!

​This very fit looking young man had a  lunchtime hankering for protein; good tasting, hunger satisfying protein without starches and processed carbs. Easy.   I suggested an off menu omelet with a side of fresh fruit.
​Within minutes, our gentleman was diving into a 3 farm egg omelet brimming with crisp hickory bacon, fresh baby spinach and a blend of cheeses. It was his reaction that sparked this blog!

​3/4 of the way through his early lunch, he hopped off the stool beaming with delight; his words tumbling, bubbling over with reasons why I should, no MUST market this happily healthy great tasting omelet meal. 

​"I really want to.....well...find some way to.....SPONSOR this omelet! We have to get the word out that there is a healthy home cooked restaurant meal in Haymarket that is not only good for you, it tastes GREAT!" We have to find a name for it; a name that tells it's story!'

​Our writer and marketing professional sat down to jot pages of notes urging and instructing me to tell our story of true home cooking that's not just good for you, it tastes good. Simple, pure ingredients that satisfy and apparently delight! 

​Thank you, Derrick. I'm telling the story of the Happily Healthy Omelet! 

Evening  forecasters predicted unprecedented cold with 40 mph wind chills registering  temps below zero. I was concerned for both the chickens and Mrs. Duck. It was early in the season and we had yet to set the pond bubbler to disrupt ice from forming a convenient predator walk way  from shore to duck island. The chickens would snug close together to share the warmth underneath the coop. But, they would eventually need to venture out for food and water.  The freezing rain to come would easily leak through the seams in the makeshift roof, soaking their combs and feet; exposing them to frostbite. We had little time to figure things out a a rain proof enclosure and practically no time to run a new electrical line to the pond.

​Unexpectedly, the ferocious rain and the wind  arrived nearly 24 hours early, catching us at nightfall.  We had no choice but to bundle up, grab flashlights  and set about wrestling billowing tarps and too short bungee hooks hoping to secure a waterproof rooftop for the run and at least one side wall. It was frustrating and freezing and took much  longer than expected to tie down the  roof of the chicken run, bolster the coop door against the wind,  battle fresh blowing hay into the nesting boxes and preform our nightly chicken tail count before finally securing the doors for the night.

​So anxious to get back inside and warm our hands,  our thoughts simultaneously  turned toward the duck pond. The ice was already forming along the  shore line. It could be only hours before it bridged a walkway to Duckwing's safe house  

More concerning was the fact that  Mrs. Duck normally would have  joined us for the winterization of the chicken coop no matter what the weather was like. In spite of the distance between pond and chicken coop, she was a curious and determined  participant in all outdoor activities. Recalling Spring and her decision to  nest and lay eggs beside the foundation of our front porch,  we had set an old dog house on the porch, filled it with fresh straw hoping Mrs. Duck would winter up close to the house this year. She had attached not only to our family, but also to the brood of chickens. Sadly, the makeshift duck house was empty, food and water undisturbed.

 Steve whistled for Coop our Weimer.  Flashlight in hand, they headed down the hill toward the pond.
​Mrs. Duck was not in her floating island, nor could she be found snugged amongst the reeds. They checked  her usual hiding places as best they could in the wind and sleet without success. Duckwing was nowhere to be found.

​By the next morning, the temps stayed low but the winds were calm. Chickens were dry and happy to leave the safety of the run and begin acclimating to winter in their fenced field. Satisfied that all was well,  Steve and Coop cheerfully  set out on a long morning walk in search of  Mrs. Duck. If this was like any other morning, she would  waddle from a new hiding place along the bank of the stream with loud quacking and greeting; goading Cooper to step out into the pond and join her in a swim. He would run along the bank in a wagging frenzy, goading Duckwing to join him for a run on dry ground. Coop would win and the duck would follow the dog slowly up the hill; dog matching his pace and step to her determined waddle.

​But this was not like any other morning. I'm not sure if it was Steve or Coop that first discovered Duckwing's final hiding place along the stream bank. All I know is that there was no carnage, no upsetting scene of the natural order of animal life. Winter simply came upon us suddenly and some creature motivated by the same instinct as ours, moved to gather in food; finding Duckwing to be a great providential blessing.

​No, there was nothing unsightly in her remains. In fact, it looked as if she had shed not her outer feathers that so deftly blended her colors against her backdrop, but her inner feathers; the ones closest to her breast. There, almost arranged  in her small nest were feathers of royal blue, emerald green black onyx and white. It was as if she left us with a parting gift, a remembrance of herself. Steve gathered these and brought them up the long hill to the house, Cooper matching his pace and step.

​Duckwing's gift of feathers are arranged in a small clay dish in our kitchen windowsill. The feathers represent happy memories.
Duckling swimming lessons in a bucket of warm water in sub zero weather.
​Leaning to peck at the front door to get our attention.
​Insisting on sitting or roosting on Steve's foot, Summer evenings on the deck.
​Bonding to Coop the dog, following him and putting so much effort into roosting on his back.
​Freaking out when we first stocked the pond, quickly calming and putting on 2-3 pounds.
​Duck pretending to be a chicken and almost making it into the hen house...almost.

​Many  more memories and great thanks for her life, her friendship and the richness of life we gained in caring for her.

​Farewell, Mrs. Duck.


along with the simple joy we experienced in caring for her.



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It's been nearly a year since last writing and we have yet to see lonesome duck with the family we hoped for. She is again  sole resident of the little pond at wood's edge. I have lately come to realize that we are, for better or worse, her family.
​When I return from the restaurant at the end of the day, one of my first tasks to change into home clothes, step into muck boots and head out with the dog toward the chicken house.
​Coop gives a soft, Woof and I call, "Hey, chick chick ." Our longhorns and layers come scampering from all directions; leaving behind their endless search for vines and flowers and bugs. Clucking to one another as they run, they anxiously look for the deli container I invariably bring; brimming with choice bits of apple core, carrot peelings, tomato stems, heels of bread and the occasional corn cob or melon rind.  They peck and fret, squabbling, tugging over the best bits, balancing on my boots to get a higher vantage of the feast. It's a noisy picnic.
​Listen carefully over the clatter of the hens and you'll hear Mrs. Duck echoing her own reply from down on the pond. She quickly paddles to the edge then navigates the steep bank of rocks and reeds, making her way to the lawn. It's a long walk up the hill. She is watchful and cautious knowing that the hens have seniority. Mrs. Duck has experienced the "Pecking order."
​I quietly scoop a cup of dried corn from the bucket, hoping not to distract the chickens from their eating frenzy. Mrs. Duck and I will head to the front porch where her bowl of water waits. I'll sit for a bit and she will gulp corn, washing down every bite with a long swallow of water. Eventually, I must leave to go inside while she lingers looking in through the glass door. I look at her silly old beak, dotted with crumbs of corn, her wide black eyes , bright blue and brown feathers; wishing I had more to offer. Eventually, she'll offer a Quack Quack Quack good bye and flap her way back to the pond.
​Earlier, when the weather was warm, Duck choose our house for her nesting place. Down beside the house foundation, deep in the ivy, she began plucking feathers from her breast, forming a beautiful soft circle for the twelve eggs she would lay, one egg, one day at a time. Each egg was neatly hidden below layers of down, as duck left for food and returned to lay. In the days to follow, she took up vigil, waiting for the tiny sounds of life, little peeping from inside the shells. Mrs. Duck would slightly raise her head and speak to her ducklings; an instinctual effort to familiarize them with her own voice in hopes they would follow and respond to her lead?  Did she remember the adopted brood of ducklings we had nurtured for her; the ones who, in spite of her coaxing and cajoling, would not remain under her wing of protection?
​Unfortunately, Duck's eggs would not respond nor would they hatch. Eventually, duck left her nest and returned to the pond. No doubt, she will build a new nest next Spring and lay again. It is in her God given nature to hope and plan for the best outcome.
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This season left us with lessons on love and perseverance. .
The draw of our nurturing voice, the call to love through both protection and freedom and the perseverance of hope.
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​Night falls the chickens have voluntarily taken their places in the hen house with doors safely bolted  for the night. Mrs. Duck is nestled inside her floating house in pond central, beak tucked snugly under her wing.  The deer are out calmly feeding.
​We rest giving thanks for all creatures great and small and wisdom we gain from God's great creation.

For those who attended our Mixology and Food Pair this evening and caught a verbal explanation of ingredients...here is my promised written version. Enjoy!

Whipped Feta
This is an adaptation of an Ina Garten recipe. We presented it as a Crostini with a Tomato Trio this evening. It's also a great stand alone dip with fresh veg or as a sandwich spread. My personal favorite application is as a smear on a grilled lamb chop.
Pull out the Food Processor
6 oz. crumbled Feta
2 oz. room temp. cream cheese...we prefer mascarpone
2 Tbs. Freshly squeezed lemon juice
2/3 cup Olive Oil
Salt and Pepper to taste
2 tbs. fresh parsley
Pulse to combine, then crank it up and run it  until there is a consistent creamy texture

Oven Roasted Tomato
400 degree oven
Cookie sheet lined with parchment paper
Core and slice ripe washed tomatoes. Arrange in pan with at least 1 inch space between.
Drizzle with olive oil.
Sprinkle with Salt and Pepper
Roast for 10 minutes, then check. Tomatoes should appear melted and brown on the bottom. Fork one up and check.
Return to the oven for 5 minute intervals if  needed. The end result should be melty and caramelized brown; not black.

In our house, we drizzle the hot caramelized slices with a little olive oil and sprinkle fresh chopped garlic overtop. Tomatoes and pan juice go into a jar with a little added olive oil. If we have fresh basil on hand, it's added as well.

Looking forward to late July through September when tomatoes are perfect off the vine!

Just about a year ago, I wrote about our lonesome duck. It was brooding time and soon, it will be brooding time again. More info on last blog.

Duckwing is the remaining female of our flock living in a tree surrounded pond at the lowest end of our 28 acres. She is not an aviator; frankly we turn our eyes away those few times she decides to fly back to the pond.  Usually she walks, waddles, snowshoes, hops up the long long hill to our front door; disappearing from sight over the first rise on her return. She is the lone survivor of two flocks.

She survived the winter in spite of the blizzard of '16.The pond fountain running helped slow down the ice forming. Solid ice is a sure walkway to foxes and other predators. We made regular trips to the pond with Coop the dog; dog pee is a great predator barrier. All that and bulking up her food with extra fat, Mrs. Duckwing survived a pretty tough winter.

Spring is just about here and Duckwing makes her trek to the house twice daily for cracked corn, kibble and dehydrated worms in preparation for her time of laying.  Once she lays eggs, she will remain with them, hoping for hatching. Normally, her mate would help care for the nest and bring food, but our lonesome duck is on her own. Or so we thought.

Friday afternoon, I thought I saw a duck leaving the pond. I knew it wasn't Duckwing because this duck navigated the woods like an expert pilot. I hoped it was a duck and not one of our turkey hawks looking for lunch. Saturday morning, we looked out an upstairs window with a perfect pond view, to see not one duck but two circling the water. Somehow, someway, Mrs. Duckwing has finally found a mate. How amazing is that?

To fully understand God's provision, you have to know that this secret little pond is nearly invisible by air or land. It's surrounded and covered by trees and lies deep in the woods. Flocks of geese, turkeys etc. pass it by.

Last post I wrote about  hanging in there with  the relentlessly unfortunate. Learning to sit in love when there is nothing you can fix or repair...when your presence means more than you can imagine.

This post, I'm thinking about God's ability and willingness to do what we cannot imagine, much less ask.  

We're looking for a new flock this year and hoping for a brand new outcome.


 
 

Several years ago, we dug out a pond that might capture springs occasionally trickling, sometimes gushing down the steep hillside of our 30 acres. True to our gung ho nature, my husband and grandson brought home 6 baby ducklings many weeks before the pond was duck ready.
We welcomed the peeps into a heated cage at the far end of our farm kitchen. They out grew/splatted/ spread/kicked and squeeked their way into a horse trough in the garage within hours. It was an early and particularly cold spring with temps dipping to single digits. We snugged them with fresh hay, hooked the heat lamp in closer and hoped for the best.
The weather turned just as the ducks outgrew their bin. Unfortunately, there was still no pond. We built an elaborate duck enclosure out of chicken wire and an old hen house with a generous baby pool for swimming lessons. I think my attachment began at this very point. The ducks quickly came to own that make shift pen. They had no inclination to fly, waddle or even run in fear. They trusted us and that would prove to be fatal.
Finally the pond was duck ready and we gently hearded them to the water's edge, bringing their nighttime pen and food bowls along for comfort. It was days before they ventured into the water and weeks before they discovered the anchored floating duck house in the center of the pond. All seemed well.
Within a month, four of the ducks were lost to predators. The two that remained, male and female returned to their domesticated beginnings. They would climb the long steep hill to the house and wait anxiously for a handful of cracked corn. Often, I would come home late from work and find the male pacing at the top of the driveway as if to say, "Where have you been??
Sadly, months later, the male duck also succumbed leaving one remaining female. And that leads me to my actual story. Let me interject, that we've tried a brood of peeps for her company to no avail. She is a lone survivor. 
She's been a widow for nearly a year now. Mrs. Duck is very dependent on our family...she slowly climbs the hill to eat and drink at least twice a day...pooping on our front porch and quacking at the oddest of times. She now allows us, no, she insists we pet her, rubbing her beak and long soft neck against our lets like a beckoning cat. We love her but we also despair of her sad, unrequited life.
Every couple of months...the hardest of times, she lays eggs in her duck island house. With no husband duck to fertilize and fetch her food, she cares for these unfertilized offspring without regard to her own health. She fails just a little bit more each time. 
And we  love her, despair for and sometimes hope nature will take it's course and she will meet her duck maker. 
Last week, she disappeared for days and we figured God had mercifully taken her home, relieving her of an unproductive, unfruitful and lonely life.  Did I mention she cannot fly?
But not.
Our hearty old sole customarily joined me in the early morning hours on the front porch for coffee, cracked corn,  and Bible time.  
I thought about the many things, many solutions I had for her...none of which helped. Actually, in my ignorance, I had done more harm than good. My fault, not hers. 
Sadly, I thought about the hopelessness of her life. She cannot do much of what she was created for.
During the short remaining term of her life,  the best thing I can do for her is to sit and spend a few minutes of company. In exchange, she might be giving me an important life lesson.