Hellooo my ducklings! Did you know you can foster a baby duck? If, for some reason, there’s a duck shaped hole in your life, you can adopt a duckling, or two or three or more, from a farm north of Toronto. They’re hugely popular with families for home learning, or with seniors, dealing with isolation, or anyone who can benefit from caring for a fuzzy little friend. You can keep the bird for a week or two, then return it when it gets too big, noisy or smelly. Being the investigative reporter that I am, I read the fine print on the website, and yes, just as I suspected, the returned adult ducks are often sold to restaurants, which may not be something you want to think about, but that’s the reality. Ducks: they are both cute and delicious. The farm also sells egg-laying hens, rabbits, dwarf goats and miniature sheep, so if Mary wants a very little lamb, you know where to go.

 

In somewhat related news, I’ve been flirting with vegetarianism. Ronan’s girlfriend, who’s been living with us these past 10 weeks, is a vegetarian, and an excellent cook, so we have been dispensing with meat for most meals, and quite honestly I don’t miss it. I actually started cutting down a few years ago, when Aidan decided to eliminate pork. Beef and lamb followed suit, and soon we were eating only chicken and fish. The reasoning behind this lies not so much with my love of animals – I do love animals. I also love the way they taste, but the environmental cost of raising a cow is unsustainable. Also, meat really isn’t that good for you. So, for the sake of our health and the health of our planet, we really should stop building our meals around animal protein. I still love a good steak, and ribs, and lamb chops and bacon nom nom nom, but now it’s a special treat, an exception to the rule.

 

A few years ago, John and I were taken out to dinner at Harbour Sixty, one of Toronto’s premiere steakhouses, by some friends who insisted on hosting. This was when Kobe beef was all the rage, and so, despite it being listed on the menu for “market price,” I ordered it, obliviously. Never do that. I had no idea. It was absolutely delicious, but so rich I couldn’t finish it. When the bill came, our host’s eyebrows shot up. Turns out my steak, my 8 oz strip of marbled and massaged Japanese beef, cost $300. I was, of course, mortified, and offered to pay for it, but Mike wouldn’t hear of it. Nonetheless, lesson learned. From then on, I’ve played it safe, and stuck to lobster and caviar.

 

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