Today, I finished the last of the grading and submitted all of my students' grades. I had a couple of students with questions and concerns that I addressed promptly. Afterward, I joined Tom and Buzz at Packards, a bar in Northampton, for lunch and a couple of pints of beer. We had a nice time chatting -- Tom and I had missed the previous lunch at Opa Opa last week due to the blizzard and other bad luck. It was good to get caught up.
Earlier, Lucy and I went to Lukasik's Game Farm and picked up a couple of small geese for our Christmas feast. Lucy and Buzz both guessed that I had wanted to have goose as a result of Dicken's Christmas Carol, but I don't think that's it.
As a young man, I became fascinated with having roast goose. We never had goose growing up, but at some point, I began to pester Lucy about wanting roast goose until she finally got me one at some point and I got to try it. It was fine. It was even better than fine: it was the fulfillment of a lifetime ambition of mine at the age of 14 or something. I'm not quite sure how the idea got into my head, but I have a suspicion.
There is a section in the Three Musketeers in which the musketeers have gone to the Parpaillot to breakfast and keep getting interrupted, so they make a bet with someone that they will go breakfast in a bastion and simultaneously hold it against the enemy for an hour:
"And what bastion is it?" asked a dragoon, with his saber run through a
goose which he was taking to be cooked.
"The bastion St. Gervais," replied d'Artagnan, "from behind which the
Rochellais annoyed our workmen."
"Was that affair hot?"
"Yes, moderately so. We lost five men, and the Rochellais eight or ten."
"Blazempleu!" said the Swiss, who, notwithstanding the admirable
collection of oaths possessed by the German language, had acquired a
habit of swearing in French.
"But it is probable," said the light-horseman, "that they will send
pioneers this morning to repair the bastion."
"Yes, that's probable," said d'Artagnan.
"Gentlemen," said Athos, "a wager!"
"Ah, wooi, a vager!" cried the Swiss.
"What is it?" said the light-horseman.
"Stop a bit," said the dragoon, placing his saber like a spit upon the
two large iron dogs which held the firebrands in the chimney, "stop a
bit, I am in it. You cursed host! a dripping pan immediately, that I may
not lose a drop of the fat of this estimable bird."
"You was right," said the Swiss; "goose grease is good with pastry."
I'm not sure, but I think this may be what fascinated me as a young man about the idea of eating goose.