Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Magic in the Kitchen

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Homemade butter? Cocoa butter? Whipped shea butter? None of the above, but just as nourishing - goose fat, rendered from our Winter goose. (Even better than a huge ass vat of solidified fat from our traditional Christmas dinner? Up until a few days ago a pair of legs - confit d'oie (confit of goose) - were buried beneath the flawless sea of white. <- Yeah, I know, goose isn't exactly traditional Spring fare, but I'm not exactly a traditional witch, so...)

Admittedly, I haven't done an exactly stellar job in expressing my love and admiration for the heavenly nectar known as "goose fat". Our torrid affair started years and years ago when I came of age and roasted my first Christmas goose for Italics and I. (Long story short? Eating goose for Christmas is traditional in my family, eating undercooked turkey for Christmas is traditional in Italics' family. It only took one Christmas with us for him to defect from an entire life of tradition. <- If you've never had goose, THAT'S how fucking good it is.)

Goose fat needs just a slightest hint of warmth to start melting - an appreciative caress (of the bird's raw body), a gentle exhalation (after breathing in the aroma of Winter richness). It doesn't take much effort to coax liquid gold out of the warming flesh of a goose. Within seconds of handling the bird begins to weep invisible tears of divinity, and the slick, moisturizing trickle of oil releases a subtle, just barely there scent of Winter celebration and debauchery.

It's a contradictory experience - it feels innocently pure and holy, like you're being purified through the anointment of a sanctified oil but it's also overwhelmingly carnal as rivulets of glistening, golden fat run between your fingers and trail down your arm. It's when my skin's lubricated with a coating of tantalizingly slippery goose fat I find myself plunging into unadulterated bacchanalia fantasies involving Italics' fist and my cunt (and all of the things we - Italics, goose fat and I - could get up to on those long, Scottish winter nights).

Sexualized sensationalism aside, how much do I love goose fat? Well, you know how on May Day you're supposed to wash your face with morning dew? This year? This year I dodged the dew and smeared a handful of my rendered Winter goose fat directly onto my face, and massaged the shit in like it was the fountain of fucking youth.

(I failed to remember that it was rendered fat containing confit d'oie which meant all of the seasonings and herbs were still present. I spent the entire fucking weekend walking into doors because I got SEASONING IN MY MOTHERFUCKING EYES AND I COULDN'T FLUSH IT THE FUCK OUT. ("OH, GOD, CALL THE DOCTOR, I'VE BEEN STRUCK DOWN WITH ~SEASONING EYE~!") Bathing your face with goose fat? Good, in theory, but requires SOME thought and consideration before execution.)

Next goose fat-themed experiment on Ms. Graveyard Dirt's list? Working UNSEASONED rendered fat into a salve/ointment that can be rubbed into the body. (<- TAKE A WILD GUESS WHERE THIS IS GOING...)

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If you're ANY amount into honey a jar of this shit is like an extended orgasm. Pink rose buds, saffron and a host of spices are ground into a fine powder and added to honey which is gently simmered and then bottled up to age.

I made a batch of Bridal Honey last year (using local heather honey) during our Easter holiday (we celebrate Hieros Gamos / the Great Rite / Sacred Marriage around Easter since that's when the in-laws are out of the house for two weeks). Some of it got used to make cookies, some of it got used to bake a Ukrainian honey cake for Midsummer (2009), and some of it magically disappeared with absolutely no explanation whatsofuckingever (other than the honey-covered spoon dripping on the kitchen counter).

The aphrodisiac properties were invoked on Walpurgisnacht (April 30th) when it was used during "flying potion" creation. (<- We made three different types of homemade booze for ritual consumption on Witch's Night: an apricot cordial, a coffee liqueur (for Papa) and two different types of weed extraction - Strega (Italics bought me a bottle for my birthday last month) and raspberry vodka (using one of the bottles we made last year with berries we foraged near the cemetery). The Bridal Honey was used in the cordial and if everything goes right it should be ready for Midsummer consumption.)

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Chocolate Espresso Cake made with a bar of Winterspice Chocolate ("a cozy blend of organic gingerbread spices and organic dark chocolate") for post-Walpurgisnacht celebrations.

Man, I'm so on the fucking fence about this. Do I extol the virtues of this glorious, flourless cake right now? Or do I give you just enough to tempt you all Pied Piper-like, and then make you wait for even more hyperbolic praise (and the recipe)? OH, GOD, DECISIONS...

(How about I check the cake reserve, and if there's enough to photograph I'll try to take a better picture to post alongside the recipe later this week?)

(No? WELL TOO GODDAMN BAD, THAT'S JUST THE WAY IT'S GOING TO BE. <- SAYS THE PMS-Y WITCH WHO JUST STARTED HER PERIOD AND IS WORRIED TO HELL ABOUT GARY BALLS - AKA WUZZA / DENNY'S - WHO IS ACTING HELLA SICK AND WEIRD AND, JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, DIDN'T WE //JUST// WRAP UP A SICK RAT/DYING RAT EPISODE RECENTLY?)

(WHAT WAS IT I SAID ABOUT BEING RELUCTANT TO MOVE THE FUCK FORWARD BECAUSE IT FELT LIKE THE UNIVERSE WAS GOING TO TRY TO PSYCH MY MOTHERFUCKING ASS OUT? //THAT//, HOWEVER YOU/I WANT TO PARAPHRASE IT. CHRIST AL-FUCKING-MIGHTY.)