My Goose is Cooked!

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!”



In the old days before refrigeration, all those trendy rustic preserved things you see on menus these days — cured meats, preserves, terrines, rillettes, all foods pickled and/or fermented — were a matter of necessity. With the fall harvest came too much of everything. And with the desolation of winter around the corner, you figured out ways to preserve all the extra meats and fruits and veggies and grains.

Chicken confit in the Dutch oven

Fast forward to the era of refrigeration, microwave cooking and frozen entrees, and these foodstuffs became quaint reminders of a more difficult epoch. Perhaps it was nostalgia or the recognition of the enduring deliciousness inherent in many preserved… but as the pace of life grew ever quicker, preserves made a roaring comeback, trailing their salty sour tails like comets into the modern era. And that’s a really good thing. More

Glennis’ Pickles

Like the good book says, it is a fine thing to love thy neighbors. Especially if thy neighbors share your love of food.

We love Chris and Glennis, who live next door. I’ve written about Chris and his smoker, his epic pork shoulders, in previous posts. And now there was time and cause to give his wife her due turn.

Canned good from next door neighbor, Glennis

I’ve got a great admiration for people who preserve their own foods. There’s a guy here in our canyon who sets up an umbrella on the side of the road, a few homemade signs, and sells his “Soon to Be Famous Hot Sauce.” I often stop — I like the guy and it’s good sauce. My friend, Tracy, in Nashville apparently makes “world famous” hot sauce, although my efforts to get her to send me a bottle have been met with abject failure. (“Can I at least get on a waiting list!?” I inquired…) More