And raised free-range, slaughtered, gutted, wrapped, frozen, exported, imported, bought, and recently removed from the bottom of my freezer for three days slow thaw in a cold shed.
All those food miles. Would have been simpler to wait for the bird to fly over my house and thwock it with a catapult. Yeah, I know, the odds, but still.
I’ve never cooked a goose before. I’ve never tasted goose. I’ve talked to geese; I’ve fed geese; I’ve been seduced by their soft honks, and a little intimidated by their comeanavagoifyathinkyoureardenough sideways eye.
What do I know about a goose? I know it has a large cavity and a lot - an awful lot - of fat. All the better to float on water, keep warm, and crisp up roast potatoes.
I hope it’ll not be another rabbit. It seemed at the time like a great idea to buy a rabbit. For a stew. Cheap wartime food: plump, plentiful pot fodder my mum would snare. I lopped (arf. oh dear) it into bunny chunks, browned it and chucked it in a pot with gubbins enough for a darkly rich, delicious stew. All went well and lips were smacked until I dug round under a potato and pulled out a delicate, exquisitely sculpted fan shaped bone. The bunny’s shoulder blade. I wasn’t hungry anymore.
I hope the goose will not be another rabbit. I rapped my knuckles tentatively on its frozen breast and held my ear close enough to its bulk to chill my sleepers.
There was no one home.
Three days.
No comments:
Post a Comment