How I Cooked the Goose

December 22, 1933

It was the week before Christmas, 1903. Outside the log shack the trees were cracking in the frost, and every now and again one of the logs in the building would check with a loud report. The thermometer was steadily sinking for a "40 below" before morning, but inside, around the stove were seated six of us discussing the prospects for spending the festive season.

We six were the pioneer settlers of the district which now contains two schools, a church, and a population of 250. Three of us were from the Old Country--George, Teddy and myself--the other three were from Old Ontario. I will introduce them as Clark, Smith and Tony--and all of us bachelors. It was my first Christmas in Canada and the first I could say with certainty that looked like what that season is always represented--namely lots of snow. It was I who brought up the subject of keeping up the festival and we had met to talk it over. George and I each had a box of good things on the way from England which we knew would include mince pies and puddings and cakes. Teddy promised a goose. Clark chipped in with a bottle of Scotch--these were pre-prohibition days--Tony and Smith offered cigars and tobacco, so that things began to look rosey for a real good time, and we parted for that night on the understanding that we all meet again on the Christmas Eve and put up our promised shares of the feast.

I might say that we lived and worked in pairs in those days--my partner was Teddy, a wild and reckless Irishman, and after the others had gone to their shacks I asked him where the goose was coming from that he had offered. He proposed ordering it in town and having it sent out on the "local" on the appointed day. So far so good and the matter dropped.

Christmas Eve saw us all again in conclave and all turned in their promised offering--except the goose. However we knew that the train was running late and would not be in till 10 p.m. when we could all go down in a body and escort it home, so we did not worry about it, but as we sat there talking and joking, I suddenly asked who was going to cook the goose when it did arrive. If you had dropped a bomb amongst us it would have had the same effect. Why it had not occurred to anyone before I cannot say. Certainly to my knowledge it had not been mentioned the previous week, and sure enough we could not eat uncooked goose Christmas day or any other day. A lively argument was started at once, each one disclaiming any knowledge of the culinary art, beyond the necessitous use of the frying pan for the daily needs of fried pork or bacon, and the making of "bannock". Finally it was put to the vote that as I was the author of the trouble I be the cook. Five voted for the proposition and one against. Motion declared carried and all opposition crushed. Seeing there was no help for it I made one stipulation and that was that I be given the use of the shack for myself alone till the hour of 5 p.m. the next day when dinner would be ready. This was agreed to as the others had planned to go up the river after some foxes, the tracks of which animals had been very conspicuous during the last day or two. Then as the time drew near for the arrival of the train bearing the precious goose, we all donned sheepskins and made for the stopping place or siding. e had no station in those days. In due time we got the bird--it had been killed and plucked thank goodness--but riding in an open car for hours it was frozen hard as iron--and so in that condition we took it home and hung it up outside to stay frozen. Seeing that the thermometer had never got above 30 degrees below zero all that week--I wonder if I should have said below 30--and was hovering around the 40 degree mark that night, it was easy enough to keep it in that condition, and after a warming around the heater we parted for the night.

Next morning the others started off on their expedition, and I was left alone to tackle the goose. I leave it to your imagination to guess the predicament I was in. Never in my wildest dreams had I ever thought of having to cook a goose for half a dozen hungry, healthy young fellows, and worse than that my knowledge of cooking was limited, and so very limited that I didn't know which way to begin. Anyway I figured I had better get the bird into the shack and look it over. I did, and as I said it was frozen hard when we got it, and now it was harder than ever after the night outside. A cursory glance showed me that although plucked of the feathers it had not been drawn. "Holy smoke," I said, "Here's a job with a vengeance." An axe took off the head and feet, but it wouldn't do to open the bird so I hung it up to the rafters over the stove and proceeded to stoke up and try to thaw it out. The heat became too intense for comfort so I opened the door and went outside to cool off, and split some more wood for emergencies. About mid-day I thought I saw signs of thawing so I took the goose down but it was only imagination and up it went again and in went more wood, till the stove and pipes were red hot. About two o'clock things began to look desperate. I knew those boys would be in on the dot, and I was not going to stand a lot of kidding on account of not being ready. "Desperate diseases need desperate remedies," thought I, "so here goes." Down came the goose just as it was and into the pan I popped it. To disguise any odours that might or might not happen, I hit on the plan of putting onions all round it in the dish and poured a little water over all to help things along. The oven was good and hot and I kept it that way for the next two hours, whilst I attended to the minor details of potatoes and turnips to help fill in the meal. At 4:30 p.m. a lovely brown on the breast of the goose assured me that the cooking process was going along nicely so I proceeded to lay out the table--a couple of boards on two barrels covered with newspapers--and set the chairs, which consisted of two boxes, three billets of wood and one dilapidated rocker. Each one had brought his enamel cup and plate and his own knife and fork; so having arranged everything to my liking and decorated the table with the pies, cake and puddings, I felt in a fairly equable frame of mind when I heard a shot in the distance, telling me that the boys were not so very far away. A few minutes later they trooped in hungry as hunters after a day in the keen frost air. I had a momentary qualm when one of them remarked that he smelt the goose a mile away, but no remarks were made as I put the dish on the table straight from the oven, and proceeded to carve it up for the gang.

Now you can bet your boots that that carving was a work of art, a shade too deep meant catastrophe, but I managed to get around the boys and serve all without mishap. By giving each a generous helping at first servicing, and drawing attention to the rest of the goodies on the table I headed off any demands for a second helping, and everything went off fine. When pipes were lit or cigars glowing, and all were feeling at peace with the world, Clark proposed that the bottle be opened and the cook's health be drunk as they one and all had figured that the poultry part of Christmas dinner would be a wash-out. Instead of which each had had the finest cooked goose he had ever tasted. To all of which the rest assented and added musical honours. The cook, called upon to reply, thanked them for their appreciation of his efforts, and told the story as above related. Inspection of the carcass confirmed the story and although one or two next day confessed to a squeamish feeling in the region of the belt for a little while after, no ill effects followed my first Christmas dinner in Canada.