My middle sister has a trio of parrots whose favorite snack food is carrots. These pampered birds turn up their beaks at Publix carrots and even organic Whole Foods carrots are not good enough, so my sister determined that she wanted honest-to-god home grown carrots. Since she knew I had a meeting in San Francisco, she decided to come with me so we could go carrot shopping in Napa. I agreed.
Finding fresh carrots in the Napa Valley in August is not difficult: There are farmer’s markets on the side of every country road, but the produce was not up to her standards: These carrots were too pale, those were too small and those over there had skimpy tops. I was getting annoyed, a not uncommon state, when we finally found the perfect produce stand.
The vegetables at this stand were gorgeous. The farmer sold fancy jellies and homemade pickles and a small group of benevolent ducks roamed about. My sister began to fill a bushel basket with carrots. I began saying things like, “How are you getting those on the plane?” and “I’m not carrying those.”
By the time I began carrying the bushel basket I noticed that one of the ducks was giving us the evil eye. “Look at that duck,” I said, “he’s up to no good.” My sister, who had moved on to tomatoes, was dismissive. “Cover him in orange sauce,” she said.
By now the duck, wings outstretched and head low, was advancing menacingly. I was about to warn my sister when the duck darted forward and bit her – hard- on the calf, causing her to drop the tomato she was fondling and squawk. The duck retreated, looking smug. The farmer looked at the squashed tomato, looked at my sister and said, “Don’t provoke the duck.”
Before we could protest, the duck began advancing again. Feeling compelled to be my sister’s manly defender I am ashamed to admit that I actually stomped my foot and said “Shoo” which did no good. Trying to avoid the oncoming duck, my sister took a step backwards, slipped on the squashed tomato and fell flat on her back, with both legs in the air. The duck rushed forward and bit her again.
The farmer was there in a flash. “What’s going on?” he said. I am truly sorry that I was laughing as hard as I was. “She forgot to duck!” I choked out. “I told you not to provoke the duck,” said the farmer. I was clutching the basket of carrots so hard it hurt. “Provoking a defenseless duck?” I said as my sister got to her feet, “that’s a fowl thing to do!”
“I did not provoke the duck,” she said, using an adjective she did not usually use in public. The farmer and his duck were now standing side by side. The farmer folded his arms. “I stand by my duck,” he said.
“The duck bit me,” said my sister, “I could have rabies.” I laughed harder. “I am a paying customer!” she added.
“Get off my property and take those carrots with you, or I’ll bite you,” said the farmer. “City people!” he told his duck. The duck glared at us. We ran to the car on a wing and a prayer, half expecting to be pelted with produce as we retreated.
My sister was incensed. “Can you believe he threatened to bite a paying customer?” she asked as we drove away. “Actually,” I said nervously, “we never paid for the carrots.”
A minute later we heard the wail of a siren behind us.