My goose was cooked … by my husband. And he did a pretty good job. It was breaded and fried and tasted fine. But I just couldn’t get over the image of this little chickie sitting in my fridge waiting for tonight. (My husband got a sack of it off a hunting pal.) It looked like an organ lying in that bag, with a giant yellow glob of fat sitting on top. So this was a case of mind over matter. Only in a negative sense.