I love life on a homestead deep in the woods. You never know what will happen next. Natalia just entered the cottage and I heard a loud, “Quack! Quack!” That’s duck for, “Oh gods! They’re going to eat me!” She told her sister, “Arielle, put a kettle on the stove promptly. The duck is basted!”
I darted into the kitchen to see why she had brought a duck in and why she said a live duck was “basted”. I found her carrying an oozing blob, dripping brown goo. She was wiping its head with a damp cloth and apart from the face becoming visible, the only way you could tell it was a duck was by the orange bill showing from under the rag, and the occasional, alarmed QUACK!
Turns out, Mrs Duck figured out how to prod the lid off of one of the 7 gallon molasses containers in the barn last night and decided it smelled so delicious that she simply must go for a swim in it. The cold molasses promptly glued her to it and she sank into it like it was quicksand. Fortunately for her, she was able to keep her head just above the level of the molasses. And there she spent the night. When Natalia found her this morning, all she could see was her little bill sticking out of the molasses like a periscope.
So now the duck’s in the soup, or rather, in the cottage, on its way to a bathroom to enjoy its first ever hot bath as we attempt to dislodge all that gooey molasses from its feathers. I am sure we can, though it’s going to lose a few in the process.
I call this photo, Sweet Basted Duck. And look! It basted itself!