“You’re going where?”

Everyone asked the same question. “I’m taking a trip to Iceland in mid-January,” I reported, trying to make it sound completely normal. And then I’d get the look. Friends and family all stared at me as if I’d crossed over, lost to some middle-aged insanity.

“Why would anyone go to Iceland in January?” That was the next question. And then there were the laughs and snide comments. “What, it’s not cold and dark enough for you in New England in mid-winter?”

The truth? They were partly right, but mostly they were wrong. Iceland in January is a study in extremes. The sun doesn’t rise until 11 a.m. and it’s pitch black by five. There’s so much snow—such a density of frozen landscape—it adds new meaning to the word “white.” And while air temperatures can be a bit warmer than those in New England,
it can be brutally cold due to winds that swirl around this island in the middle of the North Atlantic. So why would anyone leave one cold, dark place for another?

Well, there’s the food.

Iceland is said to be the first sustainable country in the world and one of the purest places to find food. Icelandic lamb is naturally raised and an intensely flavorful meat; their dairy (in particular the butter and a thick yogurtlike treat called Skyr) is rich and organic. The seafood comes from nearly pristine waters—Artic char, halibut, cod, and much more. And the restaurant scene in Reykjavik rivals that found in nearly any European capital. Best of all, Iceland is surprisingly close: a direct flight from Boston takes just over four hours.

According to the United Nations, Iceland is “the best place to live in the world.” Reykjavik (the world’s northernmost capitol) is an astoundingly hip, design-conscious city. The Icelandic people are among the healthiest on the planet (not to mention strikingly beautiful); strange as it may seem, Iceland turns out to be a fabulous place for a winter break.

I am a swimmer. For me, any good vacation/break involves swimming. And all over Reykjavik, and in virtually every little town and village throughout the country, there are public outdoor swimming pools. Imagine huge outdoor pools (most are at least Olympic size) at an average temperature of 84 degrees. The water, which comes from geo-thermally heated natural hot springs, has a slightly mineral smell, but is luxuriously soft. Surrounding these pools—which are generally free to all residents and visitors—are “hot pots,” or hot tubs filled with even hotter spring water. In Reykjavik I swam nearly ever day at one of these public pools within walking distance of my hotel. With the cityscape in the background and fat flakes of wet snow falling on my head, I did laps outdoors. I then headed for the hot tubs, starting in a pool of water at about 100 degrees and working my way up to turn-your-skin-lobster-red-hot water. These pools offer steam rooms and saunas making this one of the most accessible—not to mention inexpensive—spas imaginable.

Though not as inexpensive, a visit to the Blue Lagoon, a mineral-rich body of seawater with a surreal sky blue color is a must. Blue Lagoon is known for its healing waters, said to “cure” psoriasis and other skin ailments. I took an excursion bus out of the city, passing snow-filled fields and volcanic craters. There is an eerie silence that takes over outside Reykjavik.

When the bus pulled up to the entrance to the Blue Lagoon and everyone caught sight of the blue water, steam rising off it like soup simmering in a pot, there were audible ooohs and aaahs. The Icelandic people realize what a gold mine this pond-size body of water is and have built a series of ultramodern Scandinavian-inspired buildings surrounding the water. I spent the entire afternoon soaking, listening to the hodgepodge of languages being spoken (people come from all over the world, some 300,000 a year, roughly the population of Iceland). The bottom of the lagoon has a thin, wonderfully mushy layer of mineral-rich silica mud, and small buckets are provided so guests can spread the clay on their face and body while they float and drift. The white-peaked mountains in the background and the steam rising up off the water give the place a feeling of being somewhere far from reality. It’s easy to float and feel you’ve left earth.

I had a water massage, lying on a thin mat with a beautiful Icelandic man rubbing my neck and back and swirling me through the water in such a way so that I could feel every vertebrae in my spine stretch out and relax. Later, there was a superb lunch of local grilled langoustines and a salad made from tiny micro greens grown in one of Iceland’s many greenhouses (also geothermally heated).

Back in Reykjavik that night I had no intention of leaving the hotel. The wind had picked up, the sky was inky black, and fat, wet snow was falling. Dinner at Vox, located in the Hilton Reykjavik Nordica, was so sophisticated it could have been served in New York or Paris. But what distinguished this “Nordic Gourmet Cuisine” were the ingredients. That night I discovered the locally made vodka called Reyka (the only vodka in the world filtered through lava rocks and made with spring-fed water). I’m not much of a drinker, but a small shot of icy Reyka (with its subtly floral tones) warmed up even the frigid Icelandic night. Homemade multigrained bread was served with Icelandic butter whipped with buttermilk, lemon juice, and a touch of sugar. A foamy butternut squash soup had a mousselike texture and a layer of finely cubed (still crunchy) root vegetables resting on the bottom of the bowl. Local langoustines (not quite as sweet as Maine lobster, but meaty and delicious) were paired with crisp pork belly, apples, and roasted celeriac.

After spending a few cold hours walking around the Reykjavik harbor the next morning (and watching colorful fishing boats unload huge cod and Artic char) I headed across the street to Icelandic Fish and Chip. Billed as an “Organic Bistro,” all the fish is just harvested and dipped in an unusual batter made from organic spelt and barley. It’s fried so expertly that there’s not even a slight trace of grease. Served with potato wedges fried in olive oil and dusted with coarse sea salt and a variety of sauces (the tartar and the creamy basil and garlic aioli were my favorites) it was among the best fish and chips I’ve ever tasted. There was also a collection of homemade sodas made from citrus, fruit, and organically grown island herbs.

I was interested in visiting an old-fashioned grocery store to get a sense of ingredients available to the home cook. (I find grocery stores—often more than museums—provide a great glimpse into a culture.) I heard about a tiny neighborhood place called Melabudin. There was the usual assortment of groceries in the front, but I spotted an old-fashioned wooden tray inside the meat counter, next to the Icelandic lamb chops and pink, meaty legs of lamb. I asked about the oddly shaped cylinders of meat that vaguely resembled pâté. A man behind the counter, curious about an English-speaking American asking questions, came out to greet me. When he learned that I was a journalist he escorted me down to his office carrying the tray of mystery meat.

Fridrik introduced himself as the owner of this 100-year-old shop and educated me about the midwinter Icelandic festival called Thorrablot, better known as the “Stinky Food Festival.” This ancient Viking tradition involves eating odd cuts of meat and fish that have been preserved for winter. He served me several samples of the meat and I can only report that I’ve never tasted anything quite as nasty as “hakari,” or fermented shark, or lamb’s testicles preserved in sour milk, and boiled sheep’s head. Icelandic people still eat puffin and whale meat, pickled seal flippers, and lamb smoked over dried sheep dung, so I suppose I got off easy. Shots of the local Schnapps-like liqueur called Brennivin helped keep it all down.

The next morning I headed out of town to the countryside to see the Gullfoss waterfall and surrounding geysers. I had overslept (thanks to jet lag and the lack of morning light) and missed breakfast. Hildur, my guide, suggested we stop at a local truck stop about twenty minutes outside town. I had visions of stale doughnuts, bags of potato chips, and standard egg sandwiches. We pulled up to a tiny, charming-looking building (with a single gas pump outside, unattended, and practically coated in freezing snow) with lace curtains and a cheery yellow window frame. Litla Kaffistofan was a trucker’s dream come true. We walked into the smell of freshly brewed coffee, homemade Icelandic crepes, and the sweet scent of freshly baked bread. The little restaurant has been run by the same family for four generations (they were too busy finishing the lamb soup to talk to me) but we sampled delicate crepes lightly dusted with sugar, an open-faced sandwich of locally smoked salmon and thin slices of hard boiled egg on the house-made bread, and cups of strong coffee. Not a bag of potato chips or old doughnut in sight.

Throughout the five day trip I ate Artic char, flounder, salmon, halibut, and catfish—raw, sashimi-style (a new phenomenon in Iceland) and grilled, poached, and sautéed. Excellent as all the fish was, nothing compared to the lamb.

The sheep that the Vikings brought to the island haven’t been crossbred or fed much differently from when Viking settlers first began raising sheep on the island 1,100 years ago. The lamb you eat in Iceland today is much the same as the lamb you might have tasted back in 874. No other animals have ever been imported to the island. Icelandic sheep have the good life: they are never fed antibiotics or grain, but graze in the highlands on green country grass. What beef and hamburgers are to the U.S. lamb is to Iceland; there are 300,000 people in the country and twice as many sheep. Icelandic lamb is exceptionally tender; you barely needed a knife to cut it. The flavor is subtle, with distinctive hints of sea salt and grass. It is the best lamb I’ve ever eaten and I ordered it nearly every day.

Lamb is served virtually everywhere—from the high-end restaurants to Reykjavik’s famed hot dog stands. Baejarins Betzu, a tiny shack, is found in a parking lot across from the harbor. The hot dogs are made from ground Icelandic lamb, placed in an onion-flecked bun, and topped with mustard, ketchup, remoulade sauce, and chopped, raw onions. At under $2, they are a bargain—exceptionally juicy and bursting with flavor. You can even see a picture of Bill Clinton wolfing one down.

Vegetables were another revelation. Even in the dead of winter, there were fresh organic greens and beautiful farm-raised vegetables. Inexpensive geothermal energy provides the resources to grow all sorts of organic fruits and vegetables in greenhouses year-round.

The other major culinary discovery was Skyr—a nonfat, yogurtlike, protein-filled dairy product made only in Iceland. (It’s now sold at Whole Foods around the U.S., including Portland, and is well worth looking for.) It certainly doesn’t taste fat-free; it’s thoroughly creamy and rich with a pleasing, subtle sourness. Skyr is eaten for breakfast like yogurt, and used to make cakes, puddings, and all variety of dessert, often simply sprinkled with a touch of sugar. A Skyr parfait, layered with fresh berries, is every bit as satisfying as an ice cream sundae.

Visiting a place that is colder and darker than New England in the dead of winter does have its advantages. When I got home I was delighted to find the sun rising in my bedroom at nearly 7 a.m. and not setting until well after 5 p.m. I was filled with an appreciation for midwinter in New England that I’ve never experienced. Maybe next year I’ll try the North Pole.

NOTE:
Since my trip to Iceland last year, the U.S. economy is in turmoil and our economic troubles have rippled across the globe. Iceland was hit particularly hard. The U.S. dollar is now worth twice what is was last year and there are many travel bargains to be had.

For more information about travel to Iceland check out www.icetourist.is/ or www.goiceland.org/news.php. Iceland Air offers direct flights from Boston to Iceland and Europe; www.icelandair.com.

Whole Food, 2 Somerset Street, Portland, Maine, (207.774.7711), sells Icelandic butter (Smjor), Skyr, Icelandic Chocolate (Noi Sirius), and Icelandic lamb for several months during the summer–early fall.

Kathy Gunst is a cookbook author, freelance writer, blogger, and "Resident Chef" of the award-winning radio show, Here and Now, heard on over 60 public radio stations nationwide. She is author of the upcoming books, Stonewall Kitchen Breakfast and Stonewall Kitchen Winter Holiday Entertaining (Chronicle Books, September 2009).

My visit to Yellow House Farm in Barrington, New Hampshire, started and ended in the kitchen. My friend Joe Marquette lives here and grows heritage breed chickens, ducks, and turkeys. I couldn’t see any birds right away when I got out of the car. They appeared slowly, due more to my emerging awareness of them moving in and out of the flowers and bushes, much as stars appear in an early evening sky. Yet the yard to the side was dotted with busy birds, and once out of the car and to the crest of the hill, I could look down and see a cluster of neat, red, raised houses with delicate wire enclosures attached, like pretty town-houses with individual garden plots.

That this farm is all about food is evident from the first step over the threshold. In the small entryway there are shelves with cookbooks and poultry titles above, and good, no-nonsense cookware below. In their farmhouse kitchen, counters and cabinets surround a sunlit window, and a low, wooded kitchen work table is in the center. As I got my bearings I began to notice other touches: the pristine modern gas range, an old scale in the corner, the location of the fridge, an enormous sack of flour in the corner. Serious work takes place in this kitchen and the room can take it. Our plan for the day was to put on some birds to cook, tour the farm, then sit down to eat.

A few days before, I had expressed interest in purchasing poultry to experiment with at home. Joe told me this wasn’t possible, as the farm was undergoing its regulatory review, and during that time no food product was to leave the premises. Joe wasn’t planning on slaughtering anything in the near future, and for dinner it seemed we’d have to make do with a frozen Orpington. But as I went to the sink to wash my hands I was thrilled to bang my shin on a large plastic bin with a lid on the floor. Joe had slaughtered three birds just hours before and they were plucked, dressed, and ready for however we were to prepare them.

Orpington, Dorking, Cochin, Houdan, Silkie, Crevecoeur, and Frizzle, are several old breeds of chickens, many rare, and raised in small flocks by a handful of farmers in the United States. It is generally accepted that domestic fowl originated from wild red jungle fowl. It is not certain when these birds were domesticated, though there is evidence that the Chinese kept domestic poultry around 2000 B.C. To a large commercial poultry farmer, the pure breeds are of little interest. They favor modern hybrids that suit the needs of the market, that is, broad-breasted birds that fatten in a matter of weeks, the advantages of hybrids being efficient conversion of food and ability to survive in intensive conditions. (“Intensive” is a euphemism, of course, for what we know to be the factory environment in which comm-ercial fowl are raised. The advantage pure breeds have over the hybrids is that being genetically stable they breed true, and the owner of a flock can carefully select birds for breeding replacements. Old breeds don’t survive well in an industrial setting, but are perfect for the barnyard and the committed small farmer.

My contribution to our poultry meal was dessert. I had decided to take advantage of the seasonal fruit that was coming in while I was there, peaches and blueberries. Before going to the farm, I threw together the dry ingredients for a cream scone, putting it all into a mixing bowl over which I laid a sheet of wax paper to shield the flour from my vanilla bottle, stick of butter, pastry blender, container of heavy cream and an egg. My plan was to mix it all up in Joe’s kitchen and bake it there.

Joe burst into laughter when he saw that I had brought a store-bought egg to a poultry farm. He opened the fridge to show me his standard store: three to four dozen chicken eggs, large to small, tinted white to brown, mottled, speckled, and some blue. There were also fresh duck eggs that had a waxy, slightly bluish appearance. Joe pulled an egg from another bin from a lower shelf and placed it in my hand. It was hard-boiled. There. It shelled easily, and he recommended that I try it first without salt, in order not to mask its delicate flavor. The white was firm and sweet tasting, but the yolk was the surprise: cooked through yet creamy, with a pleasant flavor I could not compare to any other egg I’d ever eaten.

Joe pulled out an antique egg scale, a small contraption with a cradle for the egg, and an indicator which, when the egg is weighed, points to small, medium, large, and extra-large, with corresponding weight listed in ounces.

Of all poultry, ducks lay the largest number of eggs, at 250–350 or more eggs a year for heritage breeds. For a “non-weird” (Joe’s term) hybrid chicken, 200 eggs in a year is good. In the same span a happy, attentively barnyard-raised turkey can be counted on to produce about seventy eggs.

With the waning light of fading summer, egg production falls off, and the birds begin their molt, the time where old feathers are replaced with new ones, during which no eggs are produced. Birds need this time to rest. Prolific layers are also the best foragers, and they are tired from this activity during the warmer months. About six to eight weeks later, when the new feathers are in, the birds either expect to fly south for the winter, or at least think they can. Instead, the farmer uses this new energy in the rested birds toward laying winter eggs, which can be triggered in October by the use of artificial light in their coops.

Joe raises Cayuga ducks, the only old-time heritage breed, beautiful black birds with an iridescent green sheen to their feathers that shows up when the light is right. Cayugas were developed in the early 1800s, in the upstate New York Finger Lakes region, so named for this location as well as for a Native American tribe that inhabited the Northeast. According to my Storey’s Guide to Poultry Breeds, the Cayuga started out as a commercial roasting duck but lost favor in this market when the Pekin took over. The Cayuga is prized for its quiet, docile personality and their extreme hardiness. Pekins, which originated in China, are larger and lack dark pinfeathers, which, in an industry that understands the consumer likes white feathers, is an attractive point. They are good-natured gregarious birds and are good egg producers.

The Muscovy duck is in a class by itself. It descended from a wild native duck of South and Central America that did not migrate and would nest in trees, and people in that area were already keeping domesticated versions when the Europeans arrived.

Muscovy and Pekin are not breeds that require conservation efforts, but the American Livestock Breeds Conservancy (ALBC) conducted a waterfowl census in 2001, with troubling results. Ancona, Aylesbury, Magpie, Saxony, Silver Appleyard, and Welsh Harlequin breeds of ducks, and the American Buff, Pomeranian, Pilgrim, and Roman breeds of geese are critically endangered. Thirteen other breeds fall into the Rare, Watch, and Study categories, adding up to nearly three-quarters of waterfowl breeds recognized in North America. Ducks and geese are beautiful, useful birds that are easy to raise being hardy and disease resistant. And like the disappearing chicken breeds, when these waterfowl are gone, they are gone forever.

Before we dealt with the chickens, Joe brought out fresh duck eggs and flour to make pasta. The dough was bright yellow from the vibrant yolks. Putting the disks of dough aside to rest, he brought out the dressed birds, setting the three side-by-side on a cutting board. He had selected one Dorking and two Houdans. The Dorking was the oldest at twenty-two weeks; the Houdans were fourteen and eighteen weeks old. The differences in relation to their age were striking. The youngest was the leanest, and set breast up, had a large knob in the middle of its breast bone. There was little breast meat. The legs were elongated. The eighteen-week old bird had a less pronounced bony knob and more breast meat. This is because a chicken develops bone structure first, then meat, unless you are an industrially produced bird, where ramped up meat production trumps bone strength. These young birds weighed just a little over two pounds. At eight weeks, an industrial chicken will dress out in excess of six to eight pounds.

The Dorking showed even more breast meat development, but still about half as much as I might find on a commercial bird. The heritage breed chickens are known for their fine-grained white meat. But it is the dark meat that tells the story. The color of the leg meat was visible through the white skin, darker than I usually see on my everyday chicken. Dark meat is flavor, and what makes the flavor is age and exercise, a simple restatement of barnyard rearing. Further, these birds fly very seldom, and never for long distances. They run instead, which makes for tastier leg meat. More and more it is the dark meat on an industrially raised chicken that I turn to for flavor.

As Joe and I looked over the birds, he pointed out a few remaining pinfeathers. They were black, because the Houdans were mottled. Way back when the populace was used to eating old breed poultry, black pinfeathers were a sign of class and quality. Later they came to be considered inferior and commercial breeders bred their birds to be all white.

Joe’s approach to cooking birds is the younger the bird the faster and dryer the method; older birds call for slower, moist attention. But he admitted he was more of a farmer than a cook, and given the different texture of this meat, he was afraid to prepare his chicken in any other way than in a covered, cast-iron Dutch oven, with a splash of wine and some herbs. We agreed we would cook the older Dorking that way, but I wanted to try a technique with the younger birds that I learned in France earlier in the year, where I had gone to seek out the famous Poulet and Volaille de Bresse.

When the Dorking was put to oven, we went out to tour the farm. Joe and his partner, Rob, have five acres, and the amount of space seems to be just right. We went around the house to the back and down a gentle slope to the bird pens, Joe stopping here and there to point out a certain breed or behavioral characteristic. A large tom turkey was in charge of the yard, strutting his thick display of tail feathers. Joe picked him up so I could get a better look, to pet those luscious feathers, and get close inspection of his comb and wattle. The turkey didn’t seem to mind being held by its wings and turned upside down. I was impressed by Joe’s calm and respectful way with his birds.

Joe pointed out the Dorkings and five-toed Houdans, both mottled and white. There were various feather patterns, like barring, lacing, penciling, and stippling, some loosely feathered and others where the feathers grew closer and tighter to their bodies. I learned about how identifying good body shape helps the farmer choose breeding stock, and what to look for to avoid adding unwanted characteristics. Joe worried over the small flocks, as these breeds had been bred as many times as would be wise to avoid genetic inbreeding. He needed new stock to ensure diversity, but when you have the only flock of, say, white Houdans, in the country, stock from outside is hard to acquire. Nonetheless, Joe had plans for certain birds, who would be bred to whom, and why. Inside the various coops, houses and wire enclosures were Cayuga ducks, fluffy Cochin chickens, stately black Crevecoeurs. There were white geese, the same breed as the Romans had under Julius Caesar. On the floor of each house and cage were wood shaving to keep the area dry and sweet-smelling. I had to remind myself to keep looking up in the darkened structures as there were sure to be found birds in the rafters and on roofs. Before we headed back in for dinner, Joe gave me a large bucket of dry feed to disperse over the yard, taking care to distribute it evenly so that no bird was stressed by competing with another for food.

I began to prepare the younger birds. I separated the legs from the body and cut them into two pieces, removed the wings, and cut off the wing tips. I cut the back portion from the breast and left it whole, and the ribs and breast meat were divided lengthwise along the bone to make two equal pieces. After a good salt and peppering, I browned the pieces in butter. Joe was skeptical about this, thinking this was all the cooking the birds were going to get, and he was afraid for the result, tough and stringy. After browning I lightly sprinkled all the pieces with sifted flour, deglazed the pan with a little white wine, nestled the pieces back into the pan, and added heavy cream to cover halfway and simmered about forty-five minutes. The smell was torture. Another glass of wine got us through the agony. We sent my husband out to the garden to pick beans to complete the meal.

Joe describes the texture of commercially raised chicken white meat as veal; his way of saying it has no tooth and not much flavor. The breast meat of these chickens was finer, and a little chewier, but not at all tough. The Dorking took the roasting method beautifully, incorporating the aroma of the wine and herbs into its meat. In the same way, the dark meat tasted richer, with a firmer texture than my usual store chicken. Heavy cream being what it is gave the young Houdans a silky, buttery texture, with big, rich flavor, under which treatment the dark meat shone. I called dibs on the bones for stock and hoped for a spoonful or two of the leftover cooking cream to enrich it.

Joe’s ducks are entering molt and won’t produce eggs until November, and in the meantime he will plan his schedule to have meat available for sale during the winter months. Until then I will find it hard to go back to store chicken, at least whole ones I know to have been raised too fast to truly develop their flavor. The legs and thighs of the pale cousins will have to suffice, but can never rival the heritage breed bird.

Duck Breast with Currants and Pears
Serves 4- 6
Adapted from Burgundy Gastronomique, Olivia Callea

In France, this recipe would be made with fresh black currants.  For our New England kitchen I have adjusted the recipe for dried zante currants, which are available to us year-round. If you have access to fresh currants, by all means try them, increasing the amount of currants to about half a pound.

The number of duck breasts is also adjusted for smaller, heritage-breed ducks. If using larger, farmed birds, count on one duck breast half per person. In the absence of currants, I see no reason not to substitute fresh or dried blueberries.

4 whole duck breasts, cut in half
4 pears, Comice, Anjou, or other slightly firm pear, peeled, cored and cut into quarters
1 scant cup, red wine, such as Beaujolais
1 whole clove
3” piece of cinnamon stick
1 1⁄2 tablespoons honey
1⁄2 cup dried currants
4 tablespoons crème de cassis
1. Saute duck breasts in a dry frying pan, skin side down first, for about 6 minutes per side. Do not crowd pan. Remove breasts from pan, and set aside in a warm place. Do not cover tightly or skin will steam further and become soggy. Discard all but a couple of tablespoons of fat from the pan.
2. While the duck breasts are browning, add the wine, spices and honey to a small pan. Add the pear quarters and poach until tender but still holding their shape.
3. Meanwhile, deglaze the frying pan with the wine, scraping up any brown bits that may have accumulated during browning. On a gentle simmer, reduce the amount of wine by about half.
4. Stir in the poached pears, the currants and the crème de cassis, then add the duck breast to the mixture and simmer gently to reheat and coat the breasts, about five minutes.
5. Remove duck from the pan, slice thinly on the diagonal and arrange on warm plates. Garnish with pears and sauce.

Basic Roast Goose
Adapted from: How to Cook Everything, Mark Bittman

When roasting a commercially farmed goose, estimate about six servings per 8 pound goose. Heritage breed geese will be smaller, so you may have to increase the number of birds you prepare. In either case, portions need not be large as the meat is rich and satisfying.

I roast goose in a convection oven, which changes the method, eliminating the need to increase the heat to brown the bird.

1 goose, about 8 to 10 pounds, excess fat removed, rinsed and patted dry with paper towel
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

1. Preheat the oven to 350°F. With a sharp knife tip, prick the goose skin all over, no more than 1⁄4 inch deep to avoid hitting the meat.  Season the goose with salt and pepper inside and out, and place breast side down on a roasting rack fitted into a roasting pan.
2. Roast the goose for 20 minutes, remove from oven, and prick skin again; roast another 20 minutes, or until the skin starts to brown slightly. Turn the goose breast side up, prick again, and baste with pan juices. Roast for another hour for commercial birds, thirty minutes for heritage geese, basting two or three times with pan juices.
3. Unless the goose is already very brown, turn heat up to 400°F and continue to roast until the meat is done. To test for doneness: all juices, including those from the center vent, should run clear; the leg bone should wiggle a little loose in its socket. An instant-read thermometer inserted into the meaty part of the leg should read 180° F.
4. Let bird sit, loosely tented with a sheet of foil, for 10 to 15 minutes before carving to permit juices to set.

Preserving Genetic Diversity
Many old breeds are themselves composites of even older stock and still contain unique genetic characteristics that, if permitted to die out, will be irreplaceable. This is the impetus behind the passion for raising heritage poultry. Farmers like Joe know that when the old breeds fail, they are gone forever. The conservation of rare breeds of chickens, ducks, and turkeys protects the broad genetic base inherent in each species. Cultures are dependent on a stable food supply but our poultry industry has taken this mission to extremes, artificially rearing generations of genetically identical birds. Genetic diversity in essential in responding to challenges such as pests and disease, global climate change, and decreasing energy supplies. The advent of avian influenza (“bird flu”) and foot-and-mouth disease are two recent examples that underscore the vulnerabilities of our food supply due to genetic uniformity and industrial consolidation. For the same reasons, an international seed bank has been established in an underground repository in Greenland. Conservation of rare breeds of poultry, especially the breeds whose genetic material is no longer present in industrial birds, must be encouraged while we still have access to varied breeds and types.

Susan Tuveson, owner/chef of Cacao Chocolates in Kittery, loves to prepare chickens and ducks at home, and in her travel kitchen in Paris, France, where maize or wheat fed free-range farm chickens are trussed to order for the oven by her neighborhood butcher. To discuss ways to prepare heritage poultry, call her at Cacao, 207-438-9001, or drop an email to: This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .