I Bought a Pregnant Goat

I Bought a Pregnant Goat

“Hey Brad, um…I bought a pregnant goat.” This is how I artfully opened the conversation with my husband about my future endeavor in farming. And when I say “my future endeavor” what I really mean is “our future endeavor.”  Let’s just be realistic, as a business owner and mother of two small children, I cannot possibly do all the farm chores on my own. I won’t write all the details of the conversation that followed as it was lengthy and heated, but Brad built a goat fence for me a few weekends later and we moved in Gabby the Goat.

Why get a goat? I asked myself this also. Goats conjured this image in my head of a stinky, tin can eating, second-class farm animal. But I wanted one and I had no idea why. Here is what I now know about goats. Nanny goats don’t stink, only bucks. They don’t eat tin cans, although they will nibble at its paper wrapper. Their eyes, with their odd rectangular pupils used to enhance their peripheral vision, usually match their fur. As small livestock, they require less feed and pasture than say, a cow. And to top it off, their milk makes excellent soap and cheese. Hopefully I will have some for sale at the bakery by summer 2013.

So I owned a pregnant goat….not only one goat, but possibly 2, 3, or 4 goats. I had no idea when Gabby would kid because she was allowed to “run with the billy”. I had to look that up when Gabby’s previous owner mentioned it, but it means she was kept with the billy all the time. Gabby is primarily a Nubian Goat. Nubians are African goats, and unlike their seasonal Swiss counterparts, they go in to heat every month, so she could be due in 4 months or 4 days. So I waited. And I waited. And I read while I waited. I had to be ready right? I gathered as many items on the “birthing kit” listed on the Internet as possible. Paper towels..check, garbage bag…check, flashlight…check, scissors..check, elbow length gloves…check (but if I have to use them we are in HUGE trouble). I waited so long, and so impatiently, that I decided she wasn’t even pregnant. That farmer must have sold me an old nanny he didn’t want. She can’t even have babies. I don’t know anything about goats, and I know I didn’t ask the right questions, and if she has babies they’ll probably have two tails. I ranted in my head because I was afraid Brad would reiterate “G, we aren’t farmers”.

But she kidded. And she didn’t even need me or the elbow length gloves, thank goodness. It turns out domestic goats have been kidding on their own for about 10,000 years. She had a handsome black, white, and brown billy, who we named Billy, because we are so original. The “bucklings can mate at 7 weeks” phrase that I uncovered during my research was blaring through my head, so I hurried to find a home for Billy. I was simultaneously heartbroken, and terrified of my neighbors, at the incessant crying that Gabby made when she realized Billy was gone. The other problem was that I wanted milk, I had no idea how to milk a goat, and the clock was ticking now that Billy was gone. I slipped on my flip flops (mistake #1) grabbed a Mason jar (mistake #2) and headed out to Gabby (mistake #3). I tied her on a lead inside her fence and reached below her belly. As soon as I touched her she bolted, stepping on my toe and breaking the jar in one clumsy motion. The next day I tried with my boots on and with a washed out 1 gallon plastic ice cream container left over from Rose’s 3^rd birthday party. This second attempt yielded no broken glass (or toes) and I actually grabbed hold of one teat and gave a swift tug down towards the ground. Again, she bolted. I knew my time was running out so I started calling people I knew who owned goats. I knew two people. One friend loaded up his milk stand (did I really try to milk her without one?!) and came to my aid. It turns out you don’t pull down at all, poor Gabby! It’s more of a wave squeeze motion of your fingers against your palm. Brad came to my rescue again and built a milk stand and the next day I was slowly milking her, on my own, while she ate grain. I felt so Laura Ingalls Wilder! I felt so self-sufficient! I quickly walked back up to the kitchen with my warm milk. Now what? Do I drink it? Do I pasteurize it? HOW do I pasteurize it? I just couldn’t wait so I took a little sip. Not bad for warm milk! But the “goaty” flavor made me want cheese so after a few minutes on the Internet I decided on this recipe (mostly because I had what it called for). I added the garlic and herbs to the recipe, I just like the extra flavor they give:

Goat Farmer’s Cheese

¼ cup lemon juice
1 clove of fresh, crushed garlic (use only part of the clove if you don’t want a strong garlic flavor)
Fresh, coarsely chopped herbs (I like Rosemary, Oregano, and Thyme)
Coarse salt (to taste)
1 Quart of Goat milk
Cheese cloth
Strainer
Wooden spoon

 Bring the milk to a gentle boil over low heat, just to pasteurize. Remove from heat and allow to cool several minutes, then add lemon juice (don’t stir). The acidic lemon juice will allow the basic milk to curdle (it will separate into a light yellow liquid and white chunks). The liquid portion is called whey and the “chunks” are called curds. Remember “Little Miss Muffett”? Allow the milk to rest about 15 minutes. Place your strainer inside a large bowl. Position your cheese cloth over the strainer and pour the mixture into the strainer. The whey will settle in the bowl and the curds (I think it’s okay to call it cheese now!) will remain in the strainer. The cheese is very wet at this point, so the next step is to let it dry out just a bit. To do this, pull the cheese cloth up around the cheese and tie the cheese cloth to the wooden spoon. Let the spoon rest on the sides of the colander so that the cheese is suspended, allowing more whey to drip out of the cheese. Let the cheese drip 15 minutes-1 hour (depending on how dry you want the cheese). Now unwrap the cheese and fold in the garlic, herbs, and salt to taste. It tastes great with crackers or crumbled on a salad and it will last in the fridge several days in an air tight container.

I made this cheese every day for the entire summer while I milked Gabby and Rose and I ate every bit of it. Brad gave it a try, but he is much happier with cow cheese. Rose and I drank the milk (which I grew more fond of over time) and I set aside gallons to make soap (more on that in another post). I would get 1-2 quarts of milk a day from Gabby. Several events coincided that forced me to stop milking Gabby that summer. 1) Summer ended and I was still teaching school so life became hectic again in August and (2) I bought another goat.

See, I had really planned on keeping one of Gabby’s sweet baby girls…..which she didn’t have. Goats are herd animals and they need company. I returned to the farm that I purchased Gabby from and bought Rose a goat (Brad won’t care if it’s for Rose right?), which she named Sally. Sally was 3 months old and took right to Gabby. The feeling was mutual. Gabby, being the good mother that she was, and robbed so early of the right to be one, allowed Sally to nurse. And so, my milking days were over. Well, until I bred her the next year that is.

I learned a lot of things that summer. To begin with, there was just something comforting about living on a farm, even a tiny one. I didn’t really mind the extra work and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why I had spent my first 30 years owning pets who could only purr and wag for me (no offense to my cat and dog loving friends). And in retrospect, I think if I want to enjoy another 8+ years of marital “bliss” I should probably discuss such decisions with my husband first. Oh wait, what if he says no?