The geese have returned (their natural season timing thrown off by the two-faced whore that is March), and are digging through the snow to eat the (still remarkably) green grass in front of my work. They are still remarkably well-fed, which is to say that they have become so immensely big that they act like Americans wherever they go. This means that it is "goose crossing" season throughout the North Metro - cars coming to a dead stop as a goose waddles its ass across a four-lane highway. They seem to have developed an "I'm walking here" call - which is used almost exclusively at cars - for precisely this purpose.
But enough about geese. I was looking forward making potatoes and cabbage this evening (I'm not particularly fond of getting hammered with green liquid). In a coincidental twist of fate, there is a mini-potato famine in the sack where my once unspoiled russets resided. That plan has just been sacked.