Poultry galore...

We drove to Newcastle in the morning to meet up with Cristina - who was in court for a family matter involving a bent copper - for an early birthday lunch on Wednesday August 17.

It was a brilliant day, just a touch nippy, and we sat at the pier restaurant, sharing mediocre seafood dishes with the seagulls. Cristina wheeled her court trolley back to the station at about three p.m. and we proceeded to Kotara to indulge in some window shopping and general market research.

Armed with a new galvanised watering can and a snazzy Italian alloy 3/4 inch gate valve for the farm, we investigated the cinema scene; but there was nothing enticing.

So instead of staying in Newcastle overnight as originally planned, we decided to return home early. Everything was peaceful under a brilliant full moon when we arrived back at Clod Nine around 8:30 p.m., so Bianca checked quickly on her chickens, escorted a wayward rooster to his separate quarters and locked up the chookhouse.

There was a cheeky possum gallivanting around the chook house, so Bianca put out a trap, baited with an apple.

I had a glass of 2004 Clare Valley Chardonnay or two, to calm my nerves after the night-time driving which always puts me on edge.

We went to bed early. I slept without dreams, almost - which I put down to the effect of the nightcap. I was still drowsy in the morning when Bianca came in, around 6:30, from her usual rounds - to unlock the hen house, feed the geese and the roosters that are barred from the hen's quarters at night - beckoning me with quiet alarm.

Both the old rooster Rosty and the young rooster lay dead near the hen house, Rosty decapitated and Spotty bloodied in what looked like a lost fight to defend his cell mate.

We ate a somber breakfast, exchanging speculations about what beast might have killed the two roosters, and taken only one head - as a trophy?

Eventually Bianca decided to take the two victims way out of sight of the flock - to pluck them for the table! After all, they were healthy birds and it would have been a waste to just bury them.

Meanwhile I put the possum-filled trap in the van to take it to a nearby National Park, where it would meet up again with a number of its mates exiled earlier.

I stopped near Bianca's plucking grove to mention the fact that I'd seen some goose feathers near the top gate, and that it appeared the boss gander Mucki was not with his flock.

Add one headless goose...

By the time I returned with the empty trap, Bianca had investigated: Mucki, she said dolefully, was found decapitated and half dragged under a chicken-wire fence near the top gate...

She returned to finish plucking the roosters, then we had our "elevenses" (el bocadillo de las once). Next, it was Mucki's turn to be plucked, laboriously, with Bianca using old pliers, and unfortunately letting all the beautiful fine down feathers blow away.

I meanwhile scrubbed up properly like a surgeon and dressed Rosty. Then I put him in our large pressure-cooker, with salted water and spices, and proceeded to prepare Spotty for roasting.

When Bianca returned with the gander, I went to work butchering the big bird as best I could, but I sacrificed the liver and entrails ( I discarded them, with the feet and wing tips - little did I know that I possessed in my library a brilliant little book by Ermano Pontoni on how to do the noble goose full culinary justice...).

Mucki will end up as a simple potted goose, as soon as I get out to buy some lard (I turfed the thick wads of yellow fat out with the entrails, simpleton that I am!) His valiant breasts will be marinated in brandy and dry white, wrapped in bacon and incorporated in the terrine, sprinkled with muscat raisins and toasted pistacchios, as directed by Signor Pontoni.

His breeding companion, Monica, seemed to have taken Mucki's absence in her waddling stride: today she went back to her goanna-ravaged nest to lay another egg. Perhaps her son Stupsi has stepped into the breach?

Tonight we had rice and tomato soup courtesy of Rosty.

And if my GP asks me again what stuff I use to get such soft-skinned hands, I can truthfully recommend to him: "just dress a brace of poultry from time to time - pushing your arm up a gander's arse does wonders for your skin!"

Cheers!

NB: The Pastures Protection Board ranger balked at my request for more 1080 fox/wild dog bait, neighbours had complained and would not sign waivers any more (I must have depleted their pack of dogs last time round!).

Perhaps he'll bring me a trap.
...........................................................................................

In further developments since:

[] I made the terrine of goose breasts and goose mince on Sunday, having raced into town specifically to buy lard and pistacchios

[] Gianna visited with Harles on Tuesday but refused to eat from either the freshly roasted Spotty or from the delicious Italian salad incorporating the boiled Rosty. But Harley gamely tried a nice chunk of Spotty on which he nearly choked...

[] Bianca and I finished the Rosty salad that night, and I had a first taste of my goose breast terrine, spreading it on Bianca's pan' casalingo - delish!

[] Stupsi has mated with his mother - on dry land, too, since their pond is almost totally dry and being reconstructed by yours truly in gumboots and rubber gloves. The mudraking did not deter a white Ibis from flying in for a gander... scaring the poultry in passing overhead. The white-cheeked heron did not return.

[] Laurie the Pastures Protection Board ranger rolled in on Monday morning with a huge trap - possibly intended for baby Heffalumps. I've since primed it with bits from the goose carcase, which otherwise disppeared in the pressure cooker to be resurrected as soup...

And talking of resurrection: neither Bianca nor I can believe that our ABC would stoop so low as to conduct an hour-long debate on "Intelligent Design" a.k.a creationism as reconstructed by lawyers! A woman rang to say how pleased she was with such teachings, and so was her son, who didn't descend from apes any longer.

It seems whoever is responsible for this so-called intelligent design made one crucial mistake: making us descend from the dumbest tribe of apes in all creation!

Atè logo!