From the new glossy pages of The Globe and Mail (Sue Riedl’s ‘The Spread’) comes a piece about a family that moved from Israel to Kelowna and opened a goat cheese business named after their two daughters. I read it thinking: that is exactly what I’ve always wanted to do, despite not having the requisite two daughters.
I just like goats. And not only that—although I do have a story about taking one for a walk in the Austrian alps when I was nine (that got away from me because it was not used to being taken for walks by strange young Canadians and was both confused and frightened and so galloped through the village with me in hot pursuit trying to think how to say Stop Little Goat! in german)—
—but I also happen to like goat cheese.
So running a goat cheese business has always been something that seemed right up my street.
Two problems continue to prevent this:
1) They don’t allow goats on my street; at least I’ve rarely seen any, and
2) I haven’t finished the novel so don’t really have time to be milking and walking and otherwise entertaining them.
Oh, wait. There’s three.
3) Despite my general crazy love for cheese, and no matter how hard I’d be willing to try, I just know I’d never be able to describe it in these terms (from The G&M):
“Misty and Moonlight are two cheeses that stand out from the pack…. Misty is immediately distinctive with its dark ash rind made from kiln-charred root vegetables. The cheese has a mushroomy, yeasty aroma and a nice balance of flavour–salty with a soft tang that leaves a pleasantly long linger. “
The other—Moonlight—is, apparently, “smooth and creamy on the palate with mineral notes and a pleasant earthy aroma.”
Gorgeous, yes, but I’ve only just learned to describe wine as not merely tasting ‘grapey’. Now it seems it’s not enough to describe cheese as mmmm, nice…
So, notwithstanding my love of all things goatish, I’ve gotta say this is one dream I just may have to let go of.
Ah well. I’ll always have the alps.
4 thoughts on “goats are (were) one of my dreams”
When I was seventeen I lived with my sister and her husband in a rented farmhouse in Cornwall, England. She had two goats, sisters I believe, named Daphne and Chloe as well as Jethro, a billy (I can’t remember to which nanny). We used to have goat’s milk in the house. Not being much of a milk drinker I can’t remember the taste (I may have had it in tea or coffee).
What I remember most about them is that they often had mastitis and my sister used to apply ointment from a tube into their teats. While she did this I would have to hold down the goat’s back legs just in case she kicked. Even when bearing down with all my weight they used to surprise me by suddenly kicking back. Them nannies were strong creatures. Luckily I was never hurt, just startled.
Steve, you’re a born storyteller. You’d be great at the parlour game (which I’m just now inventing as I write) where a word is thrown out and everybody has to offer up some anecdotal bit, true or otherwise. (Maybe this has been invented already??)
Mmm, I think I could go for some Moonlight right now…
Me too. Anything with earthy aroma. And bread.