And so the Christmas goose, a family tradition since I can remember, has met a peaceful demise at my hands. I’ve been visiting him, handfeeding him, stroking him, adorning him with flowers, loving him since spring. Now that his death rites have been done, he is awaiting the oven under a careful blanket of snow.
Many thanks to Molly, the obliging, gracious and real live goose girl, who put up with my pagan jabberings and oddities without judgement or revoking my right to step foot upon your property.
All thanks and praise to Goose. May your flesh nourish mine and that of my children as I nourished you over these past months. Until you fly again…
(NOTE: Yes, once a year— and only once a year— I consume the flesh of my totem/spirit animal/whatever the hell you want to call it. If you’ve questions about it, feel free to ask. If you’ve hate mail to send, so be it.)
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