On a wood table sits, with an assortment of ingredients and an open cookbook surrounding it, a thawed ten-pound goose. 

A pair of bare and white middle-aged hands, horribly pale and feminine, begins removing the neck and giblets from the goose. These hands snip the wing tips off and set them aside over by the giblets. They pull out any lumps of fat from around the cavities of the goose, then grabbing a pair of small pliers… they pull out the remaining quills from the skin. 

Now using a skewer, these hands prick (but never too deep to puncture) the goose skin all over the carcass, paying special attention to the thighs and breast. They rinse and dry the reserved neck and giblets. They chop the neck into two-inch pieces. They cut the heart lengthwise in half and divide the gizzard at the lobes. 

The white female hands add two tablespoons of vegetable oil in a wide, heavy saucepan that sits on the stove, the burner underneath the saucepan is turned to medium. They throw the goose parts into the saucepan, and scatter around them one cup of chopped onions. 

The goose parts, onions, and oil cook in the saucepan. 

A short while later, these hands reduce the heat on the burner. And to the now browned goose parts, they add: four cups of chicken broth, half a cup of red wine, quarter cup of chopped carrots and celery, parsley, bay leaf, half a teaspoon dried thyme. They cover the pan to let the mixture simmer. And simmer. And simmer. And simmer. Still later, these hands strain the stock through a sieve and add enough water to measure four cups. They finely chop the neck meat, dice the giblets. 

Fingers wrapped around the chain of a gold mesh purse, she dipped into the bag proper… She took out a loose birth control pill. Between a pair of ruby-red lips, this pale woman pops the capsule. 

These hands add the diced neck meat into the stock. More time to wait. These hands transfer the now vegetable-free stock into another saucepan bringing that to a furious boil — Then pouring that all at once, whisking away, into a roux. Soon the pale hands begin to loosely pack the body and neck cavities of the goose three-quarters full with sausage and apple bread stuffing. They sew both cavities closed with a trussing needle and twine. They place the goose breast-down in a roasting pan that sits on the center rack in the oven. 

Through the open shutters, the sun is descending below the line. Hands reach into the oven, and remove the goose, placing it on the range. They spoon out most of the fat collected in the roasting pan. They turn the goose breast-up, then place the bird back in the oven. 

The crispy and cooled goose sits on the kitchen table. These same bare feminine hands remove all the stuffing. Then: picking up a carving knife and fork, they begin to slice up the bird — when a pair of white hairy hands, equally worn by age, reproaches. 

The latter takes over in carving the goose. They do so expertly, not without misplaced hormonal aggression native to middle-aged men and tired dogs. The female hands fret and wring. And wring. And wring. And wring. Soon enough, their uncovered swollen are hanging out, somehow both grotesque and Rubenesque-sensual. Like oversized gelatinous pearls excavated from a rotting clamshell sitting on the ocean floor. The female hands are gathering goose leftovers onto a glass dish. A long sheet of aluminum foil. 

There was the grinding hum of, now electric, carving tools. Beset on a finely-woven tablecloth with candles, place settings and collectible Franciscan dinnerware, he carved half the bird. He finished. This man placed a sumptuous goose piece on a plate. She reached into her gold mesh purse again. There’s something wrapped in aluminum foil… 

A pale female hand knocks on the front door, the other holding the leftovers dish. There’s no answer. After a moment, the hand knocks again. A short while later, the goose leftovers sit uncovered on the table. A pair of Black female hands, holding a small plate and serving fork, move toward the leftovers — But a pair of male hands reproach. Those hands hold up a finger. They are Black like the woman’s and soon enough… those masculine hands pick through the goose leftovers thoroughly, with a pair of tweezers. 

A jeweler’s loop is positioned in front of an eye. Those hands uncover and remove what look to be… an irregular piece of soft silicone from the leftovers. They place the piece onto a small plate nearby. 

Then those hands go back to picking through the leftovers. They pick out another piece of soft silicone. It is the last piece of… a reconstructed and glued-together diaphragm that now sits on the plate. The black female hands unscrew the cap on a tube of high-power glue. While the male hands place the jeweler’s loop on the table. 

Now in full are this husband and wife. Their faces are like a beautiful oil painting, waxen and then a moment later shockingly real. They’re facing the table that still holds the goose leftovers and the reconstructed diaphragm. The wife shakes her head, looking down at her nearly-empty birth control compact she holds in her hand. She turns to her husband and says for the first time: “she’s the one who’s been stealing my pills.”