I'm in a province of France, in a village with friends. We've been working hard over the summer and are taking a week off to fix up a old farmhouse and restore the garden to its natural state - producing soft vegetables and furnishing the local town with enough orchard fruit - lemon, orange and pear.
My friends are a tiny circle of creative and politically minded people - game designers, curators, social workers, human rights lawyers.
Much of the food comes from the farm, but we traded some of the crop to the local butcher for a goose and a side of pork. My friend Katharine butchered the goose, as is her idiom and her talent. We pluck the feathers and remove the organs. The goose is delicately prepared in a early mushroom and pomegranate glaze, again, all taken from the garden of this ramshackle old farm. Our friends prepare the shallots and turnips for the oven, while Katherine finishes the rub and the dress for the goose. I delicately prepare the goose liver in a sterilisation cooker and prepare a foie gras to go with the muscatels for entree.
We have four or five guests over from the village; many people are left without jobs due to the central European debt system which shattered otherwise sustainable agriculture during the early part of the 2000s and finally knifed by the economic crises of 2008, 2011 and 2016. After dinner, we form an anarchic collectivist ring and work out how to sabotage a local industrial mill who have been underpaying their staff. This allows local producers to profit instantly and wedges the state versus the corporation, enacting the right divine of kings to govern wrong, by and by.