Goosepimples

Geraldine Murphy

For the record, my parents would describe me as a squeamish person. You know the kind: die rather than clean a fish or hold the Christmas Turkey for stuffing. Marriage, economy, and necessity changed all that. If you belong to the squeamish clan, now is the time to make an exit, for a gory tale you are about to hear.   I started eating Goose for Christmas when I got married. It was a tradition with my husband's people and I was easily converted. As our family grew, we changed from dining with them to doing hosts ourselves. However, Geese are not so easily come by, especially when catering for a large crowd. My first experience was a cinch. A very nice lady sold us a farm reared Goose for a song, plucked, cleaned and ready for the oven. Pleased with my success, I rashly extended the numbers the following year. I was still counting when the acceptors reached fourteen. Despatched my husband out to our supplier, to be told the fox had put paid to the trade. She did tell us of a reliable woman a few miles away and John made the deal - two Geese to be collected one week before Christmas, very much in the pricey bracket, and, he informs me, ALIVE! Well, I mean he was only joking, wrote I to my mother, while waiting outside to collect them. I did appreciate I'd have to pluck them, but had managed turkeys before. I believed my "desquemishing" period had been completed. Nobody in their sane senses could expect you to kill a Goose, when you don't knows the first thing about it. I am mortally afraid of the same damn creatures.   John went in to collect them, before work. I stayed in the car, not wishing to witness the murders. When the hissing, gaggling and uproar ceased, I got out to put them in the boot. Two enormous white Geese confronted me, beady eyes, protruding beaks, very much alive and hissing. I was so flabbergasted, I didn't even protest.   Now for the problem, where to put them till the execution. Their feet were tied, so they were despatched to the garage, which is part of the house. They haunted me all day, flapping about with their sentence. The lads at work had all sorts of suggestions on how "they were to be done in". Cut the jugular vein being the most popular, very simple (a) if you can catch them, and (b) if you know where it is. These creatures don't take too kindly to minute examination. I invited a colleague of John's home to tea, thinking I'd get out of accessory to the crime. Denis said he'd have nothing to do with it. Sometime later John appeared from the garage with the news, the Goose was taking too long to die by the jugular vein method. The quickest and most humane way he could come up with was to chop their heads off! Snatches of fairy tales flew before me - the woodman and his axe!, knowing of course who would hold the Goose. Many would have washed their hands of the whole affair, but a half dead Goose, and no better solution, left me no choice. At the risk of being beheaded myself, I held it's neck on a chopping block. Wondered which to fear more, the swinging axe or this wriggling spitfire. I closed my eyes and prayed, "Dear God, don't let him miss!" Small consolation the operation was successful, when fate had to be tempted again with a repeat performance. The scene was perfect darkness, wild wind blowing and howling dogs in the background. Parallelism with the French Guillotine was apparent in subsequent nightmares.   Wouldn't you think the saga of the Geese should end there, but I don't believe in half measures. Relieved of part one, the plucking was left to the last minute. A fatal mistake in the case of a Goose - once rigor mortis sets in, they and their down do not intend to part. Perhaps they believe in Darwin's theory and wish to return as Geese. Three hours after I began the task, I was asked if that was the second Goose. An innocent enough question as the Goose had more feathers on than off. A flood of tears said more than words. Salt tears and feathers can be a pathetic sight, so I got a hand to pluck one and a half birds. Patience then gave way on both of us and we abandoned them awhile.   I attacked the second fellow again St. Stephen's morning. Invitations were out for 2.30 that day but Tempus Fugit. After indulging in complicated stuffing recipes, I discovered it was 12.30 p.m. Threw the pair of them into the sink for a wash, and realised there was something amiss. Those long fine hairs looked odd - "God, I forgot to singe them, and now they are all wet." In desperation, I drowned them in whiskey, lit the Christmas candle on the floor and set them alight in a blue flame. Finally arrived at the oven door to meet the last straw - two geese into one average oven will not go! Amidst strange praying and colourful language, I balanced one on top of the other, and fastened them in position with tin foil. The roasting tin and its burden was shoved into the oven, there to stay 'till 5 p.m. The story of the pending dinner was the talking point for the evening. With so much advice to give and comment to make, no one said dinner was late. Maybe they thought better of it. The geese arrived on the table at 5.30 p.m., juicy, tender and sumptuous, with ne'r a scar of the hazardous journey they'd been through. A journey that gives me GOOSEPIMPLES to think of it.   Copyright © 2001 Geraldine Murphy