by Donna Ball
Lindsay and Cici arrived just as Bridget, who had tripped over the laundry basket, was scrambling to her feet. Ida Mae came stiffly down the steps, flapping a towel and shouting. A brown and white goat stood a few feet away, bleating in confusion.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Lindsay, staring. “Where did that come from?”
Cici helped Bridget to her feet. “Are you okay?”
“Nasty damn thing,” Ida Mae swore, snapping the towel in the direction of the goat. “Look what it did to my laundry! Get on out of here! Shoo! Shoo!”
“Wait!” Bridget cried as the goat bounded a few feet away. “You’re scaring him!”
“That’s what I mean to do,” returned Ida Mae, advancing menacingly on the goat. “Shoo! Get!”
“How did a goat get all the way out here?” Lindsay said. “I mean, they don’t just wander around in the wild, do they?”
Cici said, “Look, it’s got a rope around its neck.”
Bridget held out a staying arm to Ida Mae. “Ida Mae, stop it. Just hold on for a minute.” She took a couple of cautious steps toward the goat, who eyed her warily but didn’t move. “Maybe he’s got some kind of identification.”
Ida Mae gave a snort of disdain, but she stopped waving the towel. “Goats don’t wear collars.”
Lindsay insisted, “He’s got to belong to somebody.”
“She,” Ida Mae said shortly. “Ain’t you got eyes? That’s a milking goat.”
Bridget, holding out her hand invitingly, murmured, “Nice goat. Good goat, don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you. Good fellow, I mean girl ...”
The goat stayed its ground uneasily, watching her with wary yellow eyes. Bridget got within a hand’s reach of the animal, and from out of nowhere Rebel lunged from his border collie crouch, lightning fast and without a sound. He charged the goat, which leapt into the air as though on springs, landed in a panicked run, and charged toward the house. Bridget screamed, “Rebel, no!” Ida Mae threw the towel at the goat, Cici ran to put herself between the older woman and the terrified goat, and Lindsay lunged to catch the rope that dangled from the animal’s neck. But it was Rebel who, with a well-placed nip to the goat’s back leg, turned it away from the house and out into the yard.
Bridget cried again, “Rebel!”
The dog, as usual, ignored her. Herding the goat as he would a sheep, cutting and turning, lunging and crouching, he pushed the terrified creature in an erratic pattern across the yard, heading toward the edge of the woods. Bridget shouted and chased after him.
Lindsay looked at Cici, “What is she doing?”
“Gone plumb crazy is what,” Ida Mae replied. She raised her voice. “Let that critter go! Get it on out of here!”
Bridget cut to the east of Rebel, shouting and waving her arms at him. The goat swung suddenly toward her and she dodged out of the way just in time.
“She’s going to get trampled,” Cici worried, and ran after them.
Chickens squawked and feathers flew as Rebel chased the goat past the chicken yard, and Bridget, with big scooping motions of her arms, managed to turn it toward the barn. Cici raced ahead and swung open the barnyard gate. Rebel cut to the right, and then to the left, and the goat, bleating in agitation, trotted right through the gate. Cici slammed the gate shut and latched it, then leaned against it, breathing hard, as Bridget caught up to her.
“Thanks,” Bridget gasped. Then to Rebel, who was sniffing curiously through the wire fence, “Good work. Good dog.”
Cici stared at her. “Good dog? Are you kidding me?”
Bridget bent over with her hands on her knees, catching her breath.
Lindsay trotted up. “Did you catch him? Where is he?”
Bridget managed, “Her.” She gestured to the barnyard.
Lindsay’s gaze followed her hand. “What are you going to do with it?” she asked, ever practical.
Cici said, “Good question.”
The three of them turned to watch the goat, which, having apparently forgotten the recent trauma, explored its new surroundings at a leisurely pace, occasionally plucking up a mouthful of scrubby grass. Rebel, bored with prey he could not reach and always quick to show his disdain for humans, streaked off in search of other adventures.
Bridget said, “It’s kind of cute, isn’t it?”
Lindsay said firmly, “Someone is missing a goat. I’ll call the radio station.”
“And the newspaper,” Cici added.
Bridget said, “I’ll get her some hay.”
“What if no one claims it?” Lindsay worried, and Cici gave her a sharp warning look.
Bridget’s expression glowed with delight. “Then we have a goat,” she exclaimed, beaming. “A beautiful nanny goat!”
“You got yourselves a peck of trouble, that’s what you got,” Ida Mae declared, coming up behind them. “And you’re gonna have some sour milk tonight, too, with all that running and jumping around. You better hope somebody claims it before milking time.”
The three women stared at her. “Milk?” Cici said. “We have to milk it?”
Lindsay put both her hands in the air firmly. “Don’t look at me.”
“I am not milking a goat,” Cici declared unequivocally. “I don’t even like goats. Why are we talking about this? We’re not keeping this goat!”
Bridget chewed her bottom lip. “Well, I suppose I could learn.” She turned hopefully to Ida Mae. “Is it hard to milk a goat?”
Ida Mae threw up her hands and stalked away, muttering, “Worthless damn women...”
Bridget smiled and leaned on the fence, surveying the new resident. “A goat,” she said. “Imagine that.”
8
Rising to the Occasion
From “Ladybug Farm Charms,” a blog by Bridget Tyndale
According to the American Dairy Goat Association, a dairy goat averages 3-4 quarts of milk per day during its ten months of lactation. More people drink goat’s milk throughout the world than cow’s milk and those who do should be much healthier. Goat’s milk averages only 3.5% butterfat, and is much more easily digestible than cow’s milk. Additionally, the natural homogenization process of goat’s milk is much less likely to cause certain undesirable side effects, such as high cholesterol, that artificially processed cow’s milk does in humans.
Goats thrive best when allowed to graze a half acre or more of pasture grasses and weeds. They are curious and naturally agile, and do not like to be confined. Strongfences are recommended for goat-keeping.
Apparently, someone overlooked that last bit of advice, because guess what wandered onto Ladybug Farm today? A nanny goat!
I’ve been browsing recipes all day and I’m amazed at how many great-sounding ways there are to use goat cheese. What are some of your favorites?
Of course, I have to learn to make goat cheese first.
Nannymom said:
Here’s a link to one of my favorite recipes for Strawberry, Walnut & Goat Cheese Salad with Pomegranate Vinaigrette.
Bridget said:
That sounds wonderful! Thanks!
Corky said:
Be careful what you wish for!
Bridget said:
You’re right! I DID say wanted a goat!
Pam2Be said:
Goats make wonderful pets. My daughter-in-law just puts a diaper on hers and lets it wander around in the house like a dog.
Bridget said:
Oh, dear. I’m afraid my housemates would have a thing or two to say about that!
KTBird said:
There’s a difference in taste between imported French chèvre and domestic. I make a wonderful tart using French chèvre, Swiss chard, and bacon. Make a piecrust with 2 tablespoons chopped fresh rosemary worked in and line a 9-inch pie plate. Meantime, fry 6 slices of bacon; remove and crumble. Saute 2 chopped scallions and one large bunch of Swiss chard (leaves only) until chard is wilted. Layer the chard mixture, crumbled bacon, and 8 ounces chèvre. End with crumbled bacon on top. Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes or
until bubbly. Enjoy!
Bridget said:
Thank you, KTBird. That sounds fabulous. wish we still had chard in our garden.
Illinoisgirl said:
We had goats growing up. They stink! And they eat everything in sight.
Bridget said:
Everything I’ve read says that nanny goats don’t have any odor, and they’re very particular about their diet. Does anyone else have more information?
SecretAdmirer said:
Hi, Bridget—
I’m glad you got the goat that you wanted. I love goat cheese, but it’s not very practical for every day, is it? Sometimes the simple things are the best. Can you make macaroni and cheese with goat cheese?
Bridget said:
To tell the truth, I like simple things, too. Here’s one of my favorite recipes for something simple—no goat cheese required!
Three-Cheese Macaroni
Prepare pasta according to package directions to measure two cups cooked. (Try using a mixture of pastas—angel hair, spinach noodle, penne—for different texture and taste.)
Melt 2 tablespoons butter in a 1-quart saucepan. Add ¼ cup flour and stir. Salt and pepper to taste, sprinkle with ¼ teaspoon nutmeg.
ADD:
1 cup milk
¼ cup shredded Asiago cheese
¼ cup sharp white Cheddar
¼ cup shredded Swiss cheese
Cook and stir over low heat until cheeses are melted and mixture starts to thicken. Remove from heat.
In a small buttered casserole dish layer half the pasta. Sprinkle with ¼ cup grated Cheddar. Pour half the cheese sauce over this. Top with remaining pasta, remaining cheese sauce, and a mixture of 2 cups Cheddar and ⅓ cup breadcrumbs. Dot with butter.
Bake at 350 degrees until bubbly and golden brown, approximately 20 minutes.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
Aunt Bridget—
You REALLY don’t have to answer every comment on your blog! The idea is to let other people write your content. Hey, congratulations on the goat! Can’t wait to see it.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
Well, it seems rude not to answer, although it does take an awful lot of time. When are you coming to see the goat? And us?
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
Hope to be home next weekend. I have a killer exam. Who’s your Secret Admirer?
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
I have no idea. It’s kind of fun to speculate though. Now get off the computer and start studying!
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
Can you e-mail me some macaroni and cheese? :)
Noah said, “Cool goat.”
Cici frowned. “We’re not keeping him.”
“Her,” corrected Lindsay.
Lindsay and Cici were struggling to carry a bale of hay from the barn into the barnyard; Noah leapt over the gate to take it from them. “Where’d it come from?” he asked.
Cici gladly relinquished the bale to him and stripped off her work gloves, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “God’s endless supply of homeless animals, as far as I can tell. But we’re not keeping him.”
“Her,” Lindsay said. She wiped her hands on her jeans, frowning a little over the marks the twine had left in her palms. “How was school?”
“Good.” Noah stripped off the twine and shook out the hay. The goat trotted over and allowed him to scratch it behind the ears. “I learned about quadrangles and self-determining governments. How many bales do you want?”
“One,” Bridget said importantly. She arrived on the scene a little out of breath, consulting a printout from the computer. “According to this, milking goats thrive on a diet of alfalfa, herbs, and wild grasses.” She looked at the other two women quizzically. “Is there any alfalfa in that hay?”
Lindsay shrugged elaborately. “Hay is hay.”
“This is fescue,” Noah supplied. “Ya’ll gonna milk this goat?”
“We are going to find its owner,” Cici said firmly.
Bridget looked at Noah pointedly. “Do you know how to milk a goat?”
He shrugged and got to his feet as the goat abandoned his petting for the more enticing allure of hay. “Just like milking a cow.”
“I think we should make cheese,” Bridget announced, holding open the gate for them.
“I think you’re out of your mind.”
“And I found these plans on the Internet for building a goat house,” Bridget added, waving the printout.
Cici stared at her. “It has to have its own house?”
“It’s not a very fancy house. Easier than the chicken coop.”
Cici stopped dead in her tracks. “Bridget, get serious. The last thing we have time for now is building a goat house. Or a goat!”
“I know,” Bridget admitted. “But we’ll rise to the occasion. We always do. When God gives us lemons, we make lemonade, and all that.”
Cici’s expression did not soften. “And what are we supposed to make when God sends us a goat?”
“Barbecue?” suggested Noah, grinning.
Bridget glared at him. “Chèvre,” she corrected firmly.
When Cici drew in a sharp breath, Lindsay stepped between the two of them, linking her arm with Cici’s. “Remember that yogurt we had in Greece?” she said wistfully as they started back toward the house.
“It was made from goat’s milk,” Bridget reminded them.
Cici agreed, somewhat reluctantly, “It just doesn’t taste the same from the supermarket, even when it calls itself Greek yogurt.”
“That’s because it’s not fresh.” Bridget’s tone was hopeful.
“That goat belongs to someone,” Cici said firmly. “We are not keeping it.”
“Speaking of goats,” Noah said, “I’m hungry enough to eat one. What’s for supper?”
“I think Ida Mae said something about a meat loaf,” Bridget answered.
He shot her a suspicious look.
“You’re not cooking?”
Bridget gestured expansively. “Been a little busy here, what with weddings to plan, goats showing up unannounced...”
Noah said, “Um, I think I have a date.”
“With whom?” Lindsay asked.
He thought about that for a minute and then grinned. “With a pizza?”
“Nice try” Cici said. “But you know the rules. We have dinner at home during the week.”
He groaned. “But the last time she cooked there was grit in the mashed potatoes!”
Bridget replied mildly, “Then maybe you could go in and help her wash the potatoes.”
“I have homework.”
“Then you’d better get started washing the vegetables,” Lindsay said, “and set the table while you’re at it. Then clean the chicken yard and get started mowing the grass. You should be able to get the back finished before dark. I can start on the front in the morning.”
He stopped walking and stared at her. “All that because I said there was grit in the mashed potatoes?”
“No,” replied Lindsay evenly, “all that because this is your house, too, and it needs to be done. And because,” she added with absolutely no change in her tone or manner, “you seem to have plenty of time on your hands since you’ve cut back your hours at the store.”
A quick belligerence flashed in his eyes, which was modified almost immediately by caution. “What are you talking about?”
“I was talking with Jonesie the other day” Cici supplied. “He mentioned you didn’t work at all on Saturday.”
“And that was after you told us you were helping him unload a big shipment all day long.”
Noah’s eyes slid from one to the other of them, shrewdly, as though searching for vulnerabilities. Finding an impene
trable fortress in their unity, he decided on another strategy. “I didn’t actually say I was working. I said Jonesie was expecting a big shipment Saturday and I would be gone all day. Both of those were the truth.”
None of the women looked impressed. “Where were you?” asked Lindsay.
He hesitated. His lips compressed, as though he were debating whether to answer. Finally he said, allowing his gaze to wander over the landscape beyond their heads, “I went to see somebody.”
