Yesterday I went to the yearly bird auction and bought a dead goose. It still has its head on it and I will need to stick my hand inside it to rip out its inards [is “inards” a word?] but at least its dead. At least I dont have to drum up the courage to go out and kill it. And at least it’s not going to get away!
If you followed my blog last Christmas, we bought a fabulously fat goose which was very much alive and kicking and happily living with the chickens in our back yard. We called her “Christmas Dinner” because she had a special purpose, all things working out, that would be realized a week later at the dinner table. However, our plans were thwarted. A few days after settling into our back yard, and pretending she was fattening herself for our festive season, Christmas Dinner made a desparate escape to the water, got adopted by a family of swans, and ended up in the newspaper as a local hero. Thus . . . we did not have goose for Christmas whatsoever but ate lamb instead. Good lamb . . mind you. Very good and cooked slowly on an Aga wood stove.
But this year, I have played it safe buy buying an ALREADY DEAD and INESCAPABLE goose that is now hanging in the shed out the back. I wont even give it a name.