Nanny, nanny, nanny goat!

When we moved out to the country when I was in fifth grade, my mom had this idea about living off the land, and part of that meant raising goats for milk. So we got a couple of goats. I joined 4-H, and the fun began.

1. Goat's milk tastes just like cow's milk, as long as you don't keep a buck and doe in the same vicinity. Starting off, we never kept bucks, so the milk was delicious. My dad built a little milking stand, and my mom or I (later mostly I) would go out of a morning and an evening and milk the goat. In the summertime, I liked to sleep in. I was a teenager. My mom worked. I can do a great imitation of the various stages a goat goes through as she becomes more and more desperate to be relieved of her milk throughout the day.

2. My mom decided it would be educational for me in the 6th or 7th grade to go with her to have the goat bred. In retrospect, that might have actually been a mistake. Fascinating experience and all, but I think I may have been traumatized by watching the doe, who was tethered, trying to escape the buck, who was suddenly reavealing certain portions of his anatomy that were quite alarming. What is that stupid rhyme all about, anyway? Nanny, nanny, nanny goat, can't catch a billy goat? From what I've seen, she doesn't want anything to do with a billy goat. And neither do I, quite frankly.

3. Some goats are possessed of the devil. When The Kid Heather was born, she immediately demonstrated demonic tendencies. That's why we named her Heather, actually, after a little girl I babysat that was . . . difficult. (Now she's grown up to be a beautiful, charming, sweet woman, and I regret any thoughts I may have had about killing her four-year-old self.) Anyway, The Kid Heather's sole purpose in life was to destroy mine by dragging me over rusty nails, raking my chest with her little cloven hooves, etc. I still have scars--inside and out.

4. Some people get too attached to their goats, and are unable to choke down the meat. My sister is such a tender individual. After Heather, I had no trouble at all relishing the roasts, the chops, the steaks, the ribs, you name it. In fact, I think I remember cackling maniacally one time as we ate, and my sister sat there and cried. (Fortunately, by the time we had the first one slaughtered, my mom's dream of living off the land was somewhat shattered, so we didn't have to tan the hide and make it into shoes for ourselves.)

5. Twenty years after I left goat husbandry behind, a woman in church decided to introduce the children to goat cheese--to help them learn what Jesus ate. I was lucky enough to be involved with the children at that time. She passed around this brown, rancid-smelling, putrid-tasting, consistency-of-rubber stuff that literally made me retch. I had never eaten goat cheese before, and I haven't had it since.

6. My good friend Sakhmet, who is to be trusted in all things yummy, told me she liked the goat cheese. In fact, she told me it was her favorite. At the time, remembering, I retched again. But being an open-minded individual, I decided I should try it again. I bought some, and it has been sitting in my refrigerator for a couple of months. I check the expiration date occasionally, so I'll have an excuse to throw it out when that day comes. But today something happened. Something very special. In the absence of any palatable cold cereal, I searced the fridge for some suitable breakfast fare. The chevre caught my eye. "Why not?" I thought. I could always rinse with Listerine afterward if necessary. And it was delicious! I love the goat cheese!

I WILL eat it in a house!
I will eat it with a mouse!
I will eat it in the rain,
I will eat it on a train.
I will eat it here or there,
I will eat it EVERYWHERE!

I've come full circle, I think. Sakhmet, thank you. Heather, may you rest in peace.

Maaa!