Fois Gras - Just kill me now

We had fois gras in some form for the second time in two weeks yesterday. The first time was New Year's Eve, when we shared a particularly fantastic Hungarian Pate that Satadru had smuggled (I can only assume in his pants) across the Atlantic.

The second time was last night at Zingerman's Roadhouse...we had fois gras in a sour cherry reduction. Nowhere else can I get such fantastic food, drink wonderful bourbon (Woodridge Reserve, I need some at home), eat the best bread I've ever had, get bone-crushing hugs from some rock-star Zingernauts, swear like a stranded sailor and leave for less than $20? Love that Roadhouse!

Since it's the second time I've eaten diseased goose liver in two weeks, I had to beg the age old question "Is it cruel to over-feed geese to produce good fois gras?" To which Alexis deadpanned "Your liver looks like that, is it cruel to you?" It's good to know a doctor who can put things in perspective.

Well, I tend to be depressive and pessemistic, is this related to my oh-so-delicious liver? A goose liver is so tiny - imagine the feast one could have off of mine. With some very dry white wine and fresh bread, it would be such a lovely evening. Let's schedule it, right after Shannukah when my butterfat content will be particularly high.