She Had Eggs in Her Car

I like people who ask if you want duck eggs. Especially if they don’t explain how they came to have duck eggs, and I really like them if they say they could get goose eggs if I want some. Like goose eggs are contraband.

She had the duck eggs in her car. This was better than bringing them into the restaurant and having them sit on the table while we ate lunch. So hard to explain. These are my duck eggs, I’d say to the other folks at the restaurant. Aren’t they beautiful?

I’d never eaten a duck egg. Like all eggs that seem rustic, I worry that once I crack one open, a tiny chick will step out and look around. And then what would I do? Would I stop eating eggs forever or go on as if nothing happened?

A duck egg yolk is huge. Huge and yellow and sunny. It is almost too much brightness to bear. Blinding. I should have taken a picture.

Now you know about duck eggs. What I didn’t tell you is that they are perfect, but you can see that. And lovely to hold, like exquisitely formed weightless rocks. You want to hold them in your hand for a good while and put them in your pockets for later. They’re that precious to feel.

This is what I’ve learned about duck eggs.