December. The light goes by half past three and the kitchen becomes the warmest room in the house. This is when the goose makes sense. Not turkey, which arrived late and loud and somehow took over. The goose was here first. It's the older bird, the one your great-grandmother would have saved for, and it rewards that kind of patience.

A goose is not a turkey and doesn't want to be treated like one. The meat is darker, richer, closer to game than poultry. There is less of it than you'd expect from a bird that size, because most of what's under that skin is fat, and the fat is half the point. It renders out during roasting, pooling in the tin in quantities that seem almost impossible, golden and clean and worth more than the bird itself if you know what to do with it. You save every drop. It goes into a jar, into the fridge, and for the next three months your roast potatoes will be the best you've ever made.

The stuffing is sage and onion. Not fashionable. Not clever. Just right. Soft, sweet onions cooked slowly in butter, torn bread, and enough fresh sage to make the kitchen smell like Christmas without a candle in sight. I cook it separately, in a dish alongside the goose, so it gets a proper crust on top while staying soft and giving underneath. The bird has enough to do without carrying a stuffing as well.

I wrote it down in the notebook years ago: goose, sage, dark afternoon, the kitchen windows running with condensation. That's the whole picture. There are few better feelings than carrying this to the table, setting it down in front of people you care about, and watching them lean forward.