Close to Nowhere

Cooked vs. golden goose

Well, my goose is cooked! Really.

Claude Vinson, former sports editor and well-known man about town, was in the office a week or so ago talking about getting a goose and cooking it.

Daughter Dana has always wanted to try cooking a goose, so I seized the opportunity. Claude said sure, he’d get me a goose when he got his and true to his word, he came strolling in one morning with a goose -- frozen, not live, thank goodness.

Side note here: Dana and assorted grown children think they are raising roosters and chickens to eat. Yet every discussion comes around to “No, you can’t kill Meanie Pants.” Or whichever. I am of the opinion that if you name something and pet it a while, you cannot kill and eat it.

But, I digress. I took the frozen goose home and stored it in the fridge until New Year’s weekend. Dana used the Christmas hambone and cooked black-eyed peas and made wild rice.

I wish I had taken a picture of the goose and the “boys” when the goose came out of the oven. It was a beautiful golden color, with a crisp skin. All the boys (Tim, who belongs to oldest granddaughter Merideth; Mitch, who belongs to youngest granddaughter Remy and Dylan, who belongs to adopted granddaughter Grace) were crowded around the island where the goose, in all its glory, was resting. Tim, holding my 2-week-old great-grandson (and Tim’s son) in one arm, had a butcher knife in the other, hacking a wing off. Dylan managed to wrest the knife from him and cut the wings off so both of them could have a taste of the goose. Mitch is kinda new to the family, so he was reluctant to wrest knives from anyone and waited until they had their mouths and hands full before hacking a piece off.

Dylan proved very handy with the knife, after Tim sharpened it. Apparently a dull knife is useless.

I even tried the goose. It was pretty good. I ate two small slices and would have eaten more except there were three guys there eating goose like it was going to run away. They cleaned that bird clear off the carcass.

Poor little Shepard, the baby, didn’t get even a smell of the goose. He’d been fed and put down for a nap before we ate.

After the plates were cleared, Shepard did get to sit at (actually on) the table. I expect he’s going to be the center of attention for a while.

He’s the golden goose, not a cooked one!

Holly Springs South Reporter

P.O. Box 278
Holly Springs, MS 38635
PH: (662) 252-4261
FAX: (662) 252-3388
www.southreporter.com

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