ON GEESE AND OTHER DELICATESSEN

You’re such a goose, you tell yourself over and over again, letting people cut you open and leave you to bleed out, stuff you with their bullshit, then eat you alive, though real gourmands like it well done and hot, I guess.

It’s all about setting limits. I need to surround myself with positive people, people who’ll help me realize my potential, I guess. But then, no one asks a goose what she wants. Not that she asks.

He’s the man, the audience cheers, eyes on the grinning chef with plenty of towels to clean up the mess he didn’t make. It’s a win-win, I guess. He likes cutting; they like watching.

The best chefs let the others do the filthy part, like to imagine their geese were killed in an accident, so basically it’s nobody’s fault. Gordon removes the neck first, then pricks the skin all over with a needle. The best way to an audience’s heart is to show it you care, please it, involve it, bring your charisma and passion, make it fun. Nothing is more memorable than the aftermath of a good killing.

The gravy should come in the end. Hearts will miss a beat as he presses his fingers and thumb against each other, grease on his bone-white shirt, before digging his hands in my flesh. A goose can be stuffed like any other poultry, he’ll say knowledgeably, as long as you choose strong hardy flavors that can stand up to its meat.

The rest is a well-known fact: preheat the oven, put the goose in the roasting pan, breast side up, roast, eat, if you’re good at chewing, and always, I mean always, make sure the kitchen walls remain clean.