Accidental Farmgirl

Reunion Countdown

2008-03-04T08:09:00.000-08:00

Two months in NYC...

Pluses:
Late-night Thai food
Art house films
Yoga studios on every block
Vegan hot dog joints

Minuses:
Taking the #6 subway line to Grand Central every AM
Hipsters making my neighborhood intolerable on the weekends
$16 glasses of Prosecco (WHAT?)
Ruby wouldn't fit in my apartment...I barely fit in my apartment.

Time to get back to the Boot.

Ciao for now...

2008-02-18T11:29:00.000-08:00

A newly freed goat is like a drunk bucking bronco...the other goats looked at her like she was some spazzed out foreign exchange student who JUST DIDN'T GET IT. Luckily she was placed with the old and invalid crew so she held her own on the playground. She didn't fare too well in the head butting contests, but much like my humiliating attempt to make the softball team in eighth grade ("No, I do not want to be the team manager, thank you anyway"), she got an A for effort.

After watching her every move for two hours I started to get the hint that I'd overstayed my welcome from the throat clearing farmers who kept walking by me. After all, this was a working farm, not a petting zoo.

As I started to walk away, I heard her little call. The same one I heard the first night I met her. But this time it had a lilting tone. It almost sounded like a giggle. If goats could express happiness, that's exactly what she did. She ran up to the fence that separated us. I told her to be good, she cocked her head, I took one last picture, then she turned around, bucked her legs in the most uncoordinated way possible and ran back to the cool goats congregating in the far corner.

Enjoy your freedom Ruby. You deserve it. I'll see you soon.

So....did I win, or what?

2008-02-14T16:00:00.001-08:00

Wait, I don't have horns yet, do I?

2008-02-14T12:54:00.001-08:00

I Challenge Thee to a Head Butting Match

2008-02-14T12:50:00.000-08:00

Destination: Goat Nirvana

2008-02-14T11:55:00.000-08:00

After loading her into the 'Cedes with edible enticements (note: a handful of raisins is like goat heroin), I settled into the back of the car with Ruby while M assuredly took the wheel of his boss's most prized possession.

My gentle cooing ("Who's the prettiest goat in the world? You! Who's going to live happier ever after now? You!") came to an abrupt end when M slammed on the brakes and told us to GET DOWN, GET DOWN NOW! I knew my goat bonding was nauseating but he could've just asked me to shut up. Sending Ruby and me hurtling through the rear window was a bit extreme. Turns out M had just spotted his boss enjoying a morning cappuccino in the piazza. I pulled Ruby's head down to join mine on the floor until we were safely out of viewing distance.

One hour and 37 grueling switchbacks later, we found it. Goat Heaven. She hopped out of the back and took a look around. Green pastures, fellow goats, and rolling hills for as far as she could see. Score.

Operation: Goat up the Mountain

2008-01-31T08:05:00.000-08:00

Have any idea how to transport a goat up a winding Alpine road? And how to entertain the goat for the 45 minute drive? Just a wee bit challenging. These were my options:

1. Finding a motorcycle with a sidecar.
2. Setting out on an all day walkathon.
3. Borrowing M's boss's brand spankin' new Mercedes SUV under the guise of "moving a big TV."

I chose # 3, natch.

Top 5 things to look for in an Italian bartender

2008-01-20T12:39:00.000-08:00

5. A masterful grasp of the art of cappuccino making. Perfect espresso to milk to foam ratio is key here, as is the temperature. Not scalding hot but never, ever lukewarm (eww). A sprinkling of cocoa or getting artsy with the foam gets bonus points.

4. Powerful Spritz making capability.
2 parts prosecco
1 part Aperol (it can be made with Campari or Select but Aperol is much, much better).
Top off with a splash and a half of sparkling water and an orange slice.

3. Keeps a continually replenished bowl of snacks in front of you. There are only so many times you can yell "Where are my potato chips?!" without completely humiliating yourself.

2. Throws in an extra glass of Prosecco after every 2 you drink (warning: this is an inviting temptress full of fizzy fun whose ability to get you drunk is deceptively strong...pace yourself).

And the number one most important, positively priceless quality to look for in your Italian bartender:

1. Possesses at intimate knowledge of village life to such a degree that when you half-jokingly ask if he knows where you can board your recently acquired pet goat for two months while you return to the States he immediately responds, "Ma, certo!" As in, "Duh, of course I do. How could you possibly think otherwise? I'll arrange for you to take her there whenever you want. Would you like some more potato chips?"

I want a goat, now what?

2008-01-19T15:05:00.001-08:00

After a month of sneaking nutritious food to my favorite goat and braving a number of diplomatic visits to my neighbor's home, I brokered the following deal:

1. A loaf of banana bread (a never before heard of concoction in these parts but one that, once tasted, is thoroughly enjoyed by every Italian I've come across)

2. An amount of Euros far more than the non-milking goat would be worth on the Alpine free market. These neighbors knew a bleeding heart sucker for animals when they saw one.

in exchange for:

1. A two-year-old goat with no dairy production value who had spent most of her life in a dark shed and now jumped at every new sight and sound.

I made out like a bandit. And I named her Ruby.

The first meeting

2008-01-03T10:17:00.000-08:00

A few pathetic animal calls from behind the shed door was all it took to destroy any sense of caution. Private property laws? Nope, not familiar with those. Besides, I was in Italy. Making things up as you went along was the highest form of patriotism.

A night of subterfuge while armed with a flashlight and a handful of bones to bribe the guard dog, I made the journey over the fence and through my neighbor’s yard. I unlocked the shed's heavy wooden door and swung it open. The smell of FARM hit me straight on. After my first shaky step inside, I was greeted with the same whinnying I had been hearing for weeks. Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness I made out a set of eyes and the outline of a face. A quick scan with the flashlight told me three things. First, she was a goat. Second, she had no food or water. Third, she was skin and bones. She was straining to reach me but a short metal chain wasn’t letting her go anywhere. It barely gave enough slack to let her lie down on the filthy concrete floor.

My goat experience was limited to seeing it listed as an entrée at my local Moroccan restaurant in NYC. What was the protocol here? Was she like a dog? A horse? Would she bite? Buck? Her sloping face and long neck vaguely resembled a camel. I hoped she wasn't going to spit on me. Her crying was reaching a crescendo and she was using every link of her chain to reach me. The neighbors were bound to get suspicious soon. I put my hand out as an offering.

After a few hesitant sniffs, she let me stroke her forehead. Within a minute, she was nuzzling my arm and poking her nose into my pockets laden with treats. A yellow tag hung from her ear. Number 20060. By the time the third handful of raisins had disappeared into her mouth, her tail was wiggling back and forth at full speed and I made her a promise that I would get her out of there.

So, this goat walks into a bar...

2008-01-03T07:42:00.000-08:00

It was only supposed to be for three months. The clichéd sojourn in Italy for burnt out city dwellers, a 90 day-long mission to explore the meaning of quality of life. Chilling in the Alps, drinking prosecco and whittling away an entire afternoon at a café without guilt. A much needed break from the action of Manhattan. But just as I was getting ready to head back to real life in "The City", something happened. It wasn’t the wine, cheese, intoxicating language, drool inducing risotto, or shocking absence of ski lift lines. It was something else entirely - a starving goat who lived in a shed next door.