skinny girls & mayonnaise

The other day at my local supermarket, I caused quite the stir when I purchased a frozen goose.

Canada goose, John J. Audubon, 1838

“Is that a goose??” said the gal at the check-out counter, causing all the other shoppers waiting in nearby lanes to crane their necks as the frozen beast made its way forward on the conveyer belt. In California, you’re hard-pressed to find anything goose-related amidst the quinoa, skinless chicken breasts and tempeh. “Hey Esmerelda, look — a goose!”

Esmerelda, the manager, climbed down from her managerial station to come in for a look.

“I didn’t even know we carried geese!” she said.

“Do you even know what to do with a goose??” the check-out gal queried me while her colleagues looked on.

“Yes,” I replied defensively, without offering any further elaboration.

I normally draw the line at ducks. Geese tend to be expensive, huge and unavailable. Indeed, this particular specimen was $70 — although what caught my eye was the 50%-off sticker, which brought the price down to $35, which I could work into a defensible dollar-per-pound argument should my wife call me on it.

Simmering duck stock for demi glace

Back at home with my new friend, I got out my poultry shears — a useful tool I pilfered from my sister’s cupboard (“Do you use these??” I asked the skinny mostly vegetarian ex-yoga teacher with whom I share a mother. “Oh heavens no,” she replied, “I don’t even know what those are for! They were a wedding gift.” “Can I have ’em?” I said.) — and set to work.

Now you, dear friends, at home — much like the bewildered multitude at the supermarket — would be well within reason to wonder exactly what I was going to do with this massive, antediluvian relative of the dinosaur. I would be making three of the pillars of French cooking, and three of the most delicious ingredients on earth — confit d’oie (goose confit), demi glace, and goose fat. (With a bonus country goose liver pâté.)

The poultry shears proved inadequate to the task of carving up the half-frozen 12-pound avian (some of those leg bones rival a cow’s!). But after much greasy wrestling, sawing, chopping Chinese-restaurant-style with a big cleaver, twisting and cursing, I had my carved up goose. It wasn’t pretty, but it was done.

Goose liver paté

The grisly work finished, I could begin the fun part. I salted and brined the breasts and legs for confit (note: when making confit duck or chicken, I typically use only the dark meat, as the breasts of both birds are better put to other uses. But goose breast is nearly as dark as the leg meat, and cooks up well as a confit.), placed strips of fat and skin into the oven to slowly render the silky oil, and stuffed the carcass and wings into a large pot with water, onion, bay leaf and carrot to begin the long process of extracting, reducing down and focusing every last drop of flavor those bits of bone and meat had to offer.

Was it worth the expense — even at half-off — and all the work? Immediately afterward, I am never sure. But when, over the ensuing months, I stir a few tablespoons of demi-glaze into a sauce, or fry some potatoes in goose fat, or smooth a knife-full of confit rillettes onto a freshly baked baguette, I am richly rewarded and issue a resounding “Yes!” into the universe.

I won’t bother sharing any recipes — what, do you really think you are going to buy a goose and carve it up?!?? Come over, I’ll share…