Duck Duck

First you clean your goose. Guy goes into a bar with a goose on his head. Two geese and a duck go into a donut shop. Bach, "The Waterfowl Variations." I remembered that I was actually in possession of an actual goose liver, also the heart, goose fat, a fine gizzard, and a truly magnificent broth. Before I turned all the remnants into dog food, I reserved out a cup of the broth. Bull in a china shop, last thing last night, cleaning the kitchen. Little smears of goose fat everywhere. Next time, I'll do this in someone else's house. Up early this morning, with pate on my brain. A couple of things first. I keep one of those orange-rind based cleaners around, very green of me, because I've never found anything better that you can use for cutting grease without wearing gloves. Clean the stone surfaces and bleach the cutting board. Then breakfast, a simple thing, really, plain omelet, pan-fried goose breast slices, all cooked in goose fat, toast, pan-fried in goose fat, with a lovely hot-pepper jam, a perfect ripe tomato. I'm sure this meal isn't very good for the actual physical body, but my god is it good. Heat water, do the breakfast dishes, shave, wash my hair, take a sponge bath, standing on a towel at the kitchen sink. Life, as I know it. Ready to tackle the pate, knowing I will, once again, trash the kitchen. We sacrifice for our art. The janitor in me cries out in pain, but the artist part tells him to go fuck himself. I only make pate a few times a year, because it is such a mess. Mid-winter I might do a baked game version, with rabbit loins down the middle. I have almost a cup of organs, split and cleaned the gizzard, the liver is huge, the heart I almost pop raw into my mouth, an Aztec candy, but I saute them slowly in goose fat. Add maybe half a cup of thigh meat, some reconstituted morels, half a stick of butter, a large sweet onion caramelized in goose fat. A cup of broth. I add some things, make it up as you go along: a few drops of hot sauce, some ginger, several grinds of black pepper, maybe a little balsamic vinegar, the good stuff you keep hidden. Run everything through the food-processor. Pack it in a hand-thrown bowl. This may be the best thing I've ever done in my life. Or it could be a fiction. You be the judge. The pate is very good, but the mess, my god, you'd think a wild animal had come through. I don't mind cleaning the kitchen, because it usually means I've done something, and that means there'll be something to eat. I make no claim to fame, I'm a janitor for god's sake, you can't expect me to pick up on the nuance of conversation. Listen, I don't care, the way you shrug your shoulders, I really don't care, you could be a serial killer, for all I care.