Roasted goose

Inasmuch as I am privy to that occult culinary wisdom that underpins the workings of the English kitchen – peopled, as it is, either (in the case of the more fortunate) by flocks of fluttering scullery maids and fearsome Cooks, all beetroot cheeks and meaty hands; or (among those wretched masses who even now press themselves in such profuse numbers into the dank and teeming chambers of London’s shadowed tenements and terraces) only the simple, wise and gentle-hearted mothers of those unruly families – I shall attempt, through this humble narrative, to explain the many elements that make up none other than the festive dish of a roasted Goose, and the method by which these are traditionally combined.
                              Naturally enough, one must begin with the Goose itself – that noble and elegant bird, whose bearing nonetheless belies a fierce and occasionally violent nature (less marked, it must be owned, once the creature has been subdued and dispatched, and lies ready for plucking upon the butcher’s slab).
                              For the typical family – a concept which, I am bound to confess, means little to anyone familiar, as is this author, with the profusion and diversity of characters that even now stride, gambol, creep, trudge, and hurry about the latticework streets of our great capital – one would do well to procure a bird of some eleven pounds or more in weight. This will be sufficient to satisfy even a sizeable and hungry gathering, such as is so often to be seen through frosted windows – candlelit and making merry – at this heartiest time of the year.

Of course, even the finest of England’s wildfowl cannot be expected on their own to meet the many great expectations of even the lowliest family during the Yuletide season. And so we turn, with not a little anticipation, to that unique delicacy so beloved of all, from ermine to urchin: the Stuffing.
                              My romantic nature tempts me, I admit, to suggest that of all the ingredients that make up this sumptuous concatenation, the most important are Generosity, Abundance, and Richness of Spirit. For is it not the Stuffing that adds fullness to the tragic bird’s hollowed carcass and, in pleasing parallel, to the Day itself?
                              Yet I must, if I am to be of service to you, lay out also, in ordered style, the more prosaic – but likewise essential – items to be procured and commingled into this rapturous offering. Pay heed, then, as I list them here:

• Two large onions, round and gold, and wrapped as tightly in their papery jackets as some poor destitute, attempting to stave off a cruel December chill with discarded pages of the London Times.
  
• Three tablespoons of sage leaves, given freshly over to a rough chopping at the hands of either your Cook or yourself, depending on your means.
  
• A goodly pile of stale breadcrumbs. (Placing a simple bowl beneath the dinner table of any nearby orphanage should garner a suitable harvest.)
  
• A little salt and a modest helping of black peppercorns, to which should be applied the pestle and mortar, much as our mutual friend Joe Gargery might apply hammer to iron upon his anvil.
  
• A pair of fresh-laid hen’s eggs, such as one might purchase from any Covent Garden costermonger – or snatch from him, if one is sufficiently artful.
  
• A little hot stock, boiled from whatever unnameable debris resulted from the previous day’s concoctions.
  
  

                              Into the recesses of the unfortunate fowl will go these many treasures, once combined. But, hold! Not yet. For before it can be stuffed, our Goose must be properly prepared. And it is to this grisly but essential task that we next devote our hungry attention.

It is a far, far better thing that this proud bird does today than it has ever done; it is a far, far better rest to which it goes than it has ever known. A moment’s grateful reflection over the grand, denuded carcass would not go amiss. For it is at this juncture that the protagonist of these proceedings will, at long last, roast the Christmas Goose.
                              If you have your own sufficiently capacious oven, it is best this be lit early in the proceedings, that it may achieve the Hadean temperature required to cook such a magnificent and well-stuffed fowl. (Should your kitchen be as meagre as the Cratchits, you may need to prevail, as they did, upon the local baker for the use of his oven.)
                              With a blade as sharp as the tongue of a Marshalsea guard, liberate the goose’s wings from its body. These will help to make the Gravy – of which, more anon. After that, I fear you are obliged to mount another gruesome expedition into the interior. Reach in and pull out all the fat you can find. Also cut away any visible fat remaining on the exterior. Now, melt all that you’ve collected gently in a saucepan. Once rendered to a liquid, it should be refined by straining through a fine sieve, or a muslin.
                              Should the sights and smells of this operation threaten to overcome your senses, stiffen your own sinews with a reminder that this dread substance is, in fact, a jewel of the parlour, imparting such depth of flavour to roast potatoes, vegetables and lean meats that you will recall the moment you resisted casting it into the street for the dogs with a glow of pride.
                              Turn now to the great carcass itself. With the tip of your knife, prick the bird’s skin all over. These tiny lacerations will allow what fat remains to escape the bird as it roasts.
                              By now, your familiarity with this fallen fowl should be such that it will hardly trouble you at all to rub salt all over its gleaming skin and the inside of its hollowed form. This task complete, take up your Stuffing and transform word into deed: cram the yawning cavity with the whole rich mass, as if packing clods of Kentish peat into a winter furnace.
                              Place the great, stuffed beast upon a metal rack, set above a tray to capture its precious fats and juices. You are now ready to transfer the whole thing into your oven (or the baker’s) to bask in the heat. Allow a quarter-hour for every pound in weight. (It should not escape your notice that the bird’s mass is now considerably greater, thanks to the Stuffing. Be sure to incorporate the total weight into your calculations.)
                              Like some fevered patient in his bed, the Goose requires your regular attention. Tend to it at intervals, using a spoon or ladle to baste it liberally with juices from the tray. And some thirty minutes before it is ready, pour out some of the fat in the tray and drop in the potatoes and vegetables to be roasted. Return everything to the oven until the Goose is fully cooked – a state you may confirm with the insertion of your trusty knife: clear juices signal a bird ready to fly the nest of its oven.
                              Resist the urge to hurry it to the table, however. Your Goose, now roasted, should be allowed to rest for at least twenty minutes, like some scarlet-cheeked Justice lately emerged, reeling and perspiring, from the depths of a Turkish steam-room. Both of these corpulent creatures benefit greatly from a moment’s gasping repose before advancing towards their respective futures.

It is the lot of the Cook, whether professional or familial, to be at every moment fully employed. Not for her the luxury of rest – which, as we have seen, is granted even to a stuffed and lifeless fowl. No: as soon as one task is complete, the efficient Cook must snatch up whatever tools are needed to plunge into the next – much as a ship-wrecked sailor must relentlessly collect the brine that seeps through his lifeboat’s sundered hull, and cast it swiftly overboard. A moment’s idleness, and both are overwhelmed.
                              Even so, the task that now arises is enough to hearten even the bleakest of houses. For as the bloated bird submits to the fire, we are able to turn to the creation of one of the season’s finest comestibles.
                              I speak, of course, of the Brown Gravy; the unctuous river that spills from a veritable armada of boats during these hallowed days. This glorious emulsion requires, if the reader will forgive me, guts: first your own (for it takes courage to plunge a hand among the gelatinous innards of your chosen bird); and then of the Goose: its gizzard, heart and liver.
                              Fry these in some of the fat, along with the chopped neck and wings and some sliced onion and carrot. Get rid of such fat as seems redundant, and add a little less than a quart of water, along with six black peppercorns and two leaves of Bay – that mysterious foliage that seemingly bedevils every such recipe and which, though it produces no discernible effect, is nonetheless insisted upon by the authors of popular household manuals.
                              Let this brew simmer for a goodly period – one and a half hours should suffice – and then strain it to remove the ghastly odds and ends.
                              Once the Goose is resurrected from its flaming underworld, thicken the juices in the tray with a little flour, over gentle heat, and add your strained stock. What occurs next is little short of an alchemical festive miracle, as so many once base ingredients are transformed into a darkly golden elixir of thick, smooth Gravy – which may now be poured, liberally and hotly, over every plate of Yuletide fare.
                              God bless us, every one!