Relative Complications

Relative Complications By A.R. Moler How to cook a goose. Brian Townsend read through the instructions of the recipe, trying to gauge how complicated this looked. Parsley, sage, and thyme. What about rosemary? Wasn’t that obligatory? Maybe not for a goose. The ingredients list called for lemon and limes, as well as honey. Okay, nothing was particularly exotic about those ingredients. Truthfully, the hardest part was probably going to be finding a place to get a goose. If this had been London, any decent butcher’s shop would probably do. Getting one in New York City was apt to take more effort. “And exactly who’s goose are you planning on cooking?” Alicia asked, staring over Brian’s shoulder. He was seated at his work desk, trying to take advantage of a few free minutes at lunch at the architectural firm he worked for. “My sister’s, well, er…I’m thinking about cooking a goose for her and her new boyfriend. They’re coming to see Tristan and me a couple of days before Christmas. I thought I’d try and do something familiar since Mom and Dad are spending Christmas in York, England, with Mom’s family.” “Only you would think of goose as familiar.” “What? You’ve never heard of Christmas goose? Some years Mom makes goose, other years it’s lamb.” “I thought maybe you hadn’t forgiven Heather for her creative packing additions to your luggage after the wedding,” Alicia teased. Brian rolled his eyes, thinking of the eighty single packs of lube that appeared in the cooler and the dozen strips of condom packets with risqué sticky notes on them. “I know perfectly well that she had help.” He poked Alicia’s belly with a finger. Alicia gave him a faux innocent look. “Moi?” “You are so guilty.” “So what else are you planning on serving with the weird un-American fowl?” “Brussels sprouts, Yorkshire pudding and roasted root vegetables. I considered a Brie and pasta casserole recipe but it looked complicated and unless I have a chance to try it out before that weekend, I’d better choose my challenges.” “No hints of holiday forgiveness from Tristan’s family?” “No, and I think that’s probably the best we can hope for. Total lack of communication is better than one of his mother’s self-centered tirades,” Brian said. “If I’d known she was pulling a stunt like she did the night before the wedding, I would have given her a piece of my mind and probably a kick in the ass, too.” Brian rested his elbows on his desk. “I think I’ve grown to never be surprised at anything his family does, which makes me wonder how Tristan came out so sane and down to earth.” “You said he spent lots of time with his grandfather, the one who left him the brownstone.” “I wish I had met him.” Alicia squeezed Brian’s shoulder. “He sounds like he would have been very nice.”