My brother Harold—you know, Harold from down at the church—sent me a dozen duck eggs. Now, I don’t know if he was tryin’ to be funny or just bein’ generous, either way, I appreciate it.
He didn’t say nothin’ about it ahead of time. Didn’t ask if I liked duck eggs. Didn’t mention a word about it, far as I remember. He just sent 'em by my daughter, she laughed the whole way like it was some kinda country ass joke.
She didn’t want none, which suited me just fine.
I took one look at that carton and thought, Damn, I ain’t had a duck egg in years. Felt like findin’ an old blues record in the attic—something familiar, but long forgot about. So I paid attention this time.
First thing I noticed? Duck eggs ain’t no chicken eggs. They richer. Thicker. That yolk’s got depth to it—like it's been through something. I cracked one into my cornbread batter, just outta curiosity. And let me tell you, that cornbread came out fluffier like a gospel choir on Sunday mornin’. Almost like cake, but still had that grit I love.
Scrambled a few, too. Took a little more grease to get 'em movin’ in the pan, but they cooked up hearty and full. That kind of richness you can taste in the back of your mouth.
I got two eggs left now, and I been holdin ’ every one like it’s the last sip of a good gin.
I don’t know if Harold meant anything by it. Maybe he was just cleanin’ out his fridge. But to me, it was a small blessing. A reminder to slow down and enjoy what’s right in front of you—even if it’s just a funny-lookin’ egg.
So now I’m askin’ you—you ever tried duck eggs?
If not, give it a go. Then come back here and tell me what you think. I wanna hear your taste.