| "Christmas is coming; the goose is getting fat." In the midst of last week’s winter storm, I heard someone recite that old rhyme. It took me back about 25 years to another winter storm and another fat goose. I had gone with my husband, Richard, and our two kids to Newfoundland for Christmas. It was his first time on the Island and his introduction to my family. I fervently wanted everything to go perfectly, but knowing my family—and especially my mother—Murphy’s Law was never far from mind. A raging winter storm howled outside; inside, the old wood-burning cook stove roared and crackled, and Dad’s frothy, yeasty-smelling beer keg behind the stove provided much-needed refreshment. My sister, Audrey, her husband, Art, and their two kids had arrived from Gander earlier that day, along with Bonnie, my youngest sister. So with Mom, Dad, and Uncle Frank, who lived with them, the jam-packed kitchen resounded with merry-making, while we waited for the goose to cook. Richard, in whose honour a goose instead of a turkey was being cooked, and my mother—ever ready to cater to his every whim—hovered anxiously over the stove. "Need any help, Glad?" He asked Mom. "Yes, my son, you can open the oven door and we’ll see how she looks," Mom answered. Richard donned oven mitts, let down the door and pulled out the red hot roaster. The goose, crackling, sizzling, and browned to perfection, lay in about six inches of goose grease. Mom stood by with the unneeded basting spoon. "Now, be careful . . . be careful," she warned. That pan weighs a ton and those hinges . . ." Too late the warning: the hinges slipped, the door tilted slightly and the pan slid to the floor. The well-greased goose ejected out of the pan, shot with lightening speed across the kitchen floor, and disappeared under the day bed where the boots had been shoved out of sight. Confusion reigned. Mom stood rooted to the spot, waving her basting spoon and screaming, "Get the goose; get the goose!" Dad, Richard, and Art made a mad dash for the day bed. They never made it. Grease flowing across the floor felled them instantly. Down they went in a flurry of capsized beer, crashing glasses, and colourful curses. My sisters’ screams and the kids shrieks of laughter, mingling with Uncle Frank’s moans of "Terrible, terrible," added to the din. Mom went into action. Grabbing a pile of newspapers, she sank to her knees and mopped a path to the day bed. Out came the goose, none the worse for wear—other than traces of dust and unidentified particles clinging to its slippery surface. Clutching the dripping bird to her bosom, Mom lugged him across the floor and plunked him unceremoniously back into the roaster. "Now then, boys," she announced, "clean up that mess and set the table!" So we did. Audrey was livid: she wasn’t going to eat that bird. "No tellin’ what’s on it," she said. Eventually, despite the storm, she bullied Art into leaving for Gander to eat at his mother’s house, and off they ventured into the raging blizzard. Meanwhile, the goose was brushed off, and the table set. To this day, I can’t remember a dinner to rival that one. The goose was demolished in record time—most of it by Richard, who by his voracious appetite and his ability to adapt, slipped firmly into Mom’s good graces. Much later, we reluctantly pushed back our chairs and sighed. Suddenly the kitchen door opened and in stumbled Audrey, Art, and the kids. "Couldn’t make it," she gasped. "Had to turn back, the roads are closed." Then her eyes fell on the platter and in disbelief she looked at us and shrieked "It’s all gone!" The storm outside was nothing compared to the one inside the year Mom cooked the Christmas goose. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- © 2000 Marlene McCarty |
| The Christmas Goose by Marlene McCarty |
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| *Published in The Telegram Dec, 2001 Re-printed in Wynterblue Thunder Magazine, Nov. 2003 |