This is every childhood story from the pond:
What a lovely day. Here. At the pond. My parents must love me, but—to be sure—I’ll let the normality of my time here confirm this presupposition. Whoa, geese! Geese are awesome! Like ducks, but bigger—their size probably makes ’em super hungry. Given how much their diminutive contemporaries are enjoying these slices of Sara Lee, I bet these geese will be eternally grateful if I share the loaf. Maybe they’ll lay a million golden eggs for me, and I’ll be able to buy all the friends in the world and never be lonely again. I’d be stupid not to do this.
Geese have teeth!? No… but what serrated devilry is this!? Holy freaking finger skin! Geese can run!? Mom! Care more about this! Dad! I’ll do better sports, I promise! Please! I just want to keep loving both of you based on the aggregate positivity of my formative years! And, lo, you feed me to this gaggle of avian hand rapists!? The fuck!?
After California’s foie gras ban goes into effect this Sunday, stories like this will become the sad reality for the unsuspecting limbs of more and more children. Thank you, hippies—and your accompanying granola—for the phalangeal holocaust you’ve signed into a completely superfluous law. We uppercrustians already had the perfect system. Our robust parties necessitated the hoitiest of toity pâtés, and the overstuffed innards of these miserable birds filled that need in tandem with our pretentious gullets. The waters were calm. The screams of wee ones muffled. Life was good.
Then… actually, I’ve already made my thoughts on this topic clear. Click the link for a refresher, and spare me the risk of redundancy. I’m just gonna leave it at this: geese are horrible wrong-things, deserving of our butchery. Look no further than your local schoolyard for the reason. I am of course referring to that most ancient and useful of waterfowl teaching tools, Duck Duck Goose. Consider the dynamic. The ducks are calm, they know their place. They will endure a small rapping of the noggin, while the goose… less so. The goose is wild, the goose seeks retribution. The goose chases, seizes and attacks with mush pot intent.
Why chisel this much-needed intolerance into their developing brains if we’re just going to pass laws contradicting it? I think I need to calm down with this:
- 1 cup sugar
- 1 cup water
- 6 sprigs thyme
- 3 oz vodka
- 1 oz limoncello
- juice and zest of 1/2 lemon
- sugar, for rim
Combine sugar, water and thyme in a saucepan and bring to a boil. Simmer for about 5 minutes then set aside to cool. In a cocktail shaker full of ice add 3 tablespoons of the thyme simple syrup, vodka, limoncello, lemon juice and zest. Shake well. Rim martini glass with sugar, pour in lemon drop and garnish with a sprig of thyme and lemon twist. This is rather strong, so if you (sissies) like your drinks on the sweeter side, reduce the vodka to 2 ounces.
Yes, I realize the majority foie gras comes from ducks now, but it makes little difference. Like the failed drug policy this country adheres to, the only thing Sunday’s kibosh bans is reasonable pricing. There will still be a fat, livery market for any gourmet junkie needing a decadent fix, just at condor prices. Being the entrepreneur I am, I hereby declare myself The White Trash Foie Grasnista. Of course I got what you need, baby—I’ve been smuggling geese in my bra for years. A grand will get you through a box social; I’ll even throw in the water crackers for free.
TWTG says, “Is it golden and full of Satan?”