Well and truly giving the goose

Allora, so here goes with the curious incident of 'the goose in the kitchen with the microwave'. - (How about that for an interesting game of cluedo?) Mon frere, Pierre - (pretentious, moi?) - was coming down for a visit so I thought I'd go all french cooking on his ass, but in a lot less a gay way than that sounds. So I was going to cook duck a la something, the only problem being not only the something but also the duck - it couldn't be got for love or money within three miles of the Maynooth environs. So I had to settle for a rather large Lidl goose, frozen et avec ses giblettes. My first decision or rather pure guess was could the duck fit my microwave, not having a full 24 hours at my disposal to wait for it to warm up all by itself? I cogitated and imagined, measured and inwardly digested the possibilities and struck the deal. Off I went carrying a frozen goose all the way home, trying desperately to look like I was carrying duck.

In the house neither of my two microwaves seemed up to the challenge. One stopped working altogether, and the other went round - bop against the door - back round - bop against the back. This went on for some time, perhaps too much time, for when I reopened the door the legs were tinged with a golden brown, doing nicely, but the rest of the bird was quite simply frigid. Thus began my hour vigil at the microwave manually turning Miss Goose. (I say Miss but I could quite as easily say 'Goosey' for by now we were becoming on quite intimate terms, directing as I was her rear end towards the microwaves at opportune moments, feeling much as a fake tan artiste must do in similar delicate situations.

To make a long adventure slightly less long, I'll cut to the highlights. I had said defrosted goosey sitting in the sink all ready for the next ignomious part of the struggle. I checked for giblets and not finding any I put her in the oven and sat down fagged out. Ten minutes later the old grey cells starting working again and I had what you might call an epiphany. I took the already cooking bird out of the oven and tried the other end, and sure enough - bob's your uncle but only on Tuesdays - there they were ... still frozen to the rest of the insides. More delicate microwave positioning followed even more ignominious than before. I'll leave that to your own healthy imagination.

Cook for 2 and a half hours breast down to ensure tenderness. The goose fat came out and in went the potatoes and things seemed to at last have come together like a good plan. I presented the bird to my brother and friends and carved with all the pride of one who has survived much to give something of beauty to the world. The carving wasn't easy, but I presented the first piece to my brother, encouraging him to eat it. The second breast was even harder to cut, at which my brother inquired softly if the breast might not possibly be on the other side. And true enough that side was deep and by now quite tough, but much more acceptable as an offering to a guest than the remains of Goosey's behind. With this is mind, I realise than I've still got a belt or two to go before I can get that illustrious cordon bleu, but still Goosey did not die in vain, as the meal was made with love, and I think you could taste that.