Our introduction to farming came with a parcel of farmyard animals. The original inventory included a brown nanny goat of mixed genetic breed. She was a sweet animal disposed to opening gate latches with her horns and browsing on flowers and selected garden bushes of the more expensive varietals.
Sue rather favoured the goat, as she was, in those days, determined to feed her family the right kind of food. Very high on her priority list was goat milk, and she was absolutely delighted to have the opportunity of serving fresh goat milk every day. Our three children were reluctantly introduced to this product as a straight beverage, curdled into yogurt, added to cereal, made into cheese and incorporated into every imaginable recipe.
Every morning and night in those neophyte days of our farming career I would bring Nanny the brown goat into the barn and produce half a gallon of milk per hand-numbing session. Simple arithmetic induces the production of seven gallons a week and something like 30 gallons a month. Not many people in rural Alberta in the late seventies were into goat milk, and with Sue’s, “waste not want not” dictum, it was very hard on the family. They, contrary to Sue’s New Age diet regime, rather identified with the rest of the Albertans. Regrettably, the regime tolerated no breach in the ranks, and I was expected to set an example while maintaining discipline in the troops. I found this particularly difficult as my nose was in intimate contact with the goat’s flank during milking sessions, and the odour can only be compared to concentrated human armpit. No matter how much I washed Nanny and took all the precautions not to contaminate the milk, that odour always seemed to permeate the product. Definitely not an elevated gastronomic experience.
The dog got fat on surreptitious offerings under the table. The children developed an aversion to meals and did their utmost to get invited to suppers at friends’ homes. I took more clients out to business lunches that necessitated a low-calorie diet of salads in the evening. Today, although I consider myself to be an eclectic chef, I still find it difficult to eat a strong-tasting goat cheese.
My son, however, is a textbook case of aversion therapy. One day he entered the restaurant kitchen where a group was gathered around a plate of baguette slices that had been toasted with an outstanding Alberta Goat cheese. It was really delicious, and we were all expressing appreciation, when my son, without waiting to consult someone about the ingredients, popped a whole piece into his mouth. The reaction was instantaneous, and for everyone present, very perplexing. He began convulsive movements that could only be described as cross between St. Vitus’s dance and a frenzied, improperly stimulated Shaker trying to exorcise his mind of impure thoughts. Bug-eyed and jerking with both hands flapping as if he were doing the doggy paddle, he moved widely away from the group trying to locate the closest garbage can. The only benefit resulting from this has been his reluctance to barge into my kitchen and try something without first asking.
Needless to say, in times of need and stress there seems to be a bond of complicity among those who feel the need to outwit the oppressor. The quantity of milk each day diminished. Hidden bowls of milk were left out for grateful cats. Our two piggies were also benefiting and enjoying the unexpected daily windfall of milk treats in their trough. The children, determined to eliminate goat milk from their diet, enthusiastically volunteered, at any opportunity I was not home, to milk Nanny before Sue became aware that the reduction in production was being engineered.
Fortune and complicity were not in our favour. Much of Sue’s nutritional advice came from an individual who made it her life’s mission to inflict wacky foods and dietary supplements on reluctant families. Her influence was a formidable, ever-present invisible force in our home, and probably several others in the neighbourhood. One day this person announced to Sue that she had found a customer for the excess goat milk. This poor, unwitting family absolutely had to have goat milk. Sue lamented the fact that milk production had been declining and that there was just enough left for her family. This was no obstacle for the Sherman tank. Within twenty-four hours this scourge on our lives had located a fresh milking goat.
On arriving home one evening I was informed by Sue that I would be driving out to some obscure farm to collect a fresh milking goat with an astounding milk production record. I tried every trick to thwart this new threat to our family. It was February and very cold. We were broke. I had an old truck, bald tires and no stock racks. How was I going to get the goat home? Sue saw no problem in a strange goat sharing the front cab with me, reasoning that the income from the milk would more than offset the purchase price of the goat.
With $150 in my pocket (an exorbitant sum for a goat in those days), I traveled the icy back roads of rural Alberta looking for the farm. After several wrong turns, and in a very black mood, I arrived at the place just as it was getting dark. The farmer was perplexed on how I would get the goat home as it was not possible to travel with a goat in the back of a truck given that there were no stock racks, and it was extremely cold. When I informed him that the goat would be a passenger in the front seat he gave me a long hard look, spat out tobacco juice and asked me to drive up to the barn. He either was not a talking man or was reluctant to share conversation with a nutcase. We loaded “Annabelle” into the front seat. He counted his money, and I started on the return journey home.
Sue’s expectation of a goat’s behaviour in the front seat was far from the reality of the situation. On being loaded in the front of the truck, Annabelle, sensing that she was leaving her flock, set up an incessant chorus of pathetic bleats that in the closed confines of the cab had a deafening and unnerving affect. Driving to this farm had been difficult enough. Driving back was going to be a nightmare. This was not a goat willing to sit down with a safety belt and discuss milk production and teat management with me as we took a cautious drive to her new home. Oh no! This was a very upset horned animal that was going to make her point about being abducted.
The first few miles were devoted to bleating. She was standing on the seat and turning around every few moments. I was either presented with the rear end and the possibility of an unwelcome gift or dodging the horns. I was shouting, she was bleating and the defrost system was not working very well, resulting in poor visibility.
The intersection came up unexpectedly, and braking with bald tires while lifting the elbow to fend off the unwanted attention from the horny end, resulted in sliding off the slippery shoulder and into the ditch.
About fifteen minutes later a truck stopped and a kindly farmer got his chains out and hauled me out of the ditch. As soon as I had been securely dragged back up onto the road, I leapt out of the vehicle to help disengage the chains so that I could minimize the possibility of the goat being discovered in the front of the truck. Fat chance! Annabelle, who had been quiet while the truck was in the ditch, let out a renewed frantic chorus of bleats that could not but attract the attention of anyone at a considerable distance, let alone right next to the old truck. The curious farmer peered into the truck for what seemed a long time, then looked back at me with a dumbfounded expression, then looked back into the truck. Before he could say anything, I thanked him profusely, leapt into the vehicle and drove away as fast as possible without getting myself back into the ditch.
Even Sue knew when the point of no return had been reached, and when it was better not to push her luck. The drive home with Annabelle had not been pretty, and even included an unwanted warm shower. Granted, the old truck had not been much. But any scrap of dignity it might have possessed was now gone. There were dungle berries rolling around the floor, a wet seat, and a pervasive odour reminiscent of a lumberjack’s armpits in mid July after a hard day’s work.
Sue cleaned the truck. Goat milk gradually disappeared from the family diet, except for goat milk ice-cream, which was somewhat acceptable as it was the only legitimate source of sugar in our otherwise sugarless diet.
In spite of it all, I sincerely think that goat milk has a place, and I would not denigrate its value. Shortly after the Annabelle episode, I entertained a young university student from a very influential family in Saudi Arabia who amazed us by drinking a pail of warm fresh goat milk with gusto and relish. To this day I will never forget the expression on my son’s face as he witnessed this feat. I do not have words to adequately describe it.