Getting Barbara's Goat

The drive to the goat farm was through a vineyard into the mountain foothills. We turned off the road, crossed a stone bridge where a small stream gurgled over rocks.

The farmhouse itself was in an old stone house built centuries before. A stable was to one side.

For years I had seen one of the owners, Leo, selling his goat cheese at the Saturday marché dressed in blue coveralls like farmers wear in kids’ books. His beard is Santa Claus thick. For many years there was a video on his stand showing how the cheese was made, contrasting low and middle tech.

My friend Barbara and I were searching for a goat, a three-month old male that had been culled from the 15 goats born this spring. Two bucks ans all the females survived. We weren’t looking for a pet, but dinner.

I am 90% vegetarian. I eat meat when someone cooks it for me. I don’t buy it. Seeing pigs, sheep and cattle stuffed in cars like the Jews in Nazi Germany, travelling miles to be slaughtered turned me off meat. I also don’t like American meat because of the hormones. Although no one listens to me, I think the fattening-up hormones in American meat is also contributing to the obesity in the US. So when Barbara who had lived in Africa and ate goat there raved about its taste and was thrilled she could get goat meat from Leo, I was willing to try it because I knew the goat had been treated humanely. I loved the taste and so the news that she was about to get more, pleased me.

We were greeted by Marjika, Leo’s wife. She and her husband aren’t French, but Dutch. Like so many a trip to Southern France led them to move. They managed to buy an old farm before prices in this area went crazy and succeeded where so many have failed, living off the land. Their vegetable garden provides most of their needs and I could see tomato plants, onions and raspberries in early stages of growth. Both have certificates in cheese making.

Because it was Sunday, the goats were in the long stable. During the week, they have the run of the farm. The stable was long, with about 70 goats sorted more or less by age. The bucks were separated from the females. They ranged in age from babies to about 12. A milk goat usually produces until they are 10 or 11. Marjika said that she only milks her goats nine months a year. Feeding them just straw causes their milk to dry up. Baby goats restart the production.

She keeps four bucks. I thought of the New Zealand’s Footrot Flat’s comic book character of Cecil the ram, who is too lazy to do his job http://www.oneil.com.au/footrot/ch_cecil.shtml None of the bucks looked as if they would avoid their siring responsibilities.

Two female goats were good friends, always together, Marijka said. “Maybe once a year they fight, I separate them for a couple of days, then they are back to being friends.”

The goats greeted us, one deciding that my sweatshirt tasted good. The goat that learned to open the gate was identified as we walked to the milking room.

Two cats, one a taffy tiger male and a calico angora walked us back to the showroom where we packed up our butchered meat, the source of many good meals to come. I imagine eating the roasts and chops over Barbara’s shop with a good local wine and whatever vegetable is the freshest. We will have many good conversations as we eat. I will not try and think of their eyes and their personalities.