They Feed Us then We Feed Them

 



On Saturday I went with my family to the ostrich farm. (In this instance my family includes my four-person family, my brother's three, and my friend Columbia's three as well).  Our first order of business was to order barbecued Ostrich burgers, which most of the kids didn't like (my 15-month-old niece seem to enjoy them).  The meat was lean, not as greasy as beef burgers, and it had a distinct flavour.  Vaguely remeniscent of beef or chicken, but not the same as either.  I found them quite delightful.

Next we took a tour of the farm, with a guide named Joey who looked about 15-years-old.  He showed us the breeders, adult Ostriches that were lucky enough to have avoided the chopping block.  Then he gave us a cup full of feed and took us to see the "Teenagers", who weren't so lucky.

They plunged their heads into our chalices of corn with such vigour, that the feed spilled everywhere.  Then, when the cups were empty, they pecked violently at our feet.  Although the word "pecked" is far too dainty, as the sound was across between machine-gun fire and an angry village mob pounding on your front door.  Joey told us that the ostriches have brains as big as their eye, and that they really aren't very smart.  While I enjoyed the experience of having dinosaur-like creatures lunge their rock-hard beaks at my toes, I really didn't feel too bad about eating them.

After that we got to peak through a window at a small group of adorable leopard-spotted ostrich chicks.

Advice: if you go, bring lots of cash.  They don't take debit or credit and there are lots of exotic meats you can buy there.  Luckily we had just enough to purchase some bison for Adam's birthday dinner tomorrow.