Whole Rotisseried Baby Goat
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So what's with the first pic here? Well, those are some of my gardens--which are starting to come into bloom. And that is a tomato plant at the front door. A while back, I posted that I was headed out to our local garden store with "my checkbook in hand" to fill my annual pots. I asked for any suggestions. Natalie Dupree surprised me by writing "Arugula."
Her suggestion got me to thinking: how come I don't landscape annuals with vegetable plants in pots? So thanks to Natalie, we're now loaded with tomatoes, eggplant, and chiles in pots.
What does any of that have to do with roasting a baby goat? Nothing. I put that picture up top because I wanted to give those who might be offended or squeamish fair warning. This may be the most insane thing I've ever blogged. Ever will blog, probably, too. What's about to come is intense. You have to click through to see the whole thing.
Hey, I'm being sensitive. When I'm not watching a baby goat get fit to a rotisserie skewer. But more on that after the jump.
We live near a goat dairy. And so we live near baby goats for sale. Not to raise. To eat.
Let me get up on a high horse for a minute. (Promise not to skewer and roast it.) If you eat cow dairy of any sort, you support the veal industry. Because (shock!) male cows come from pregnant females. A little less than half the time. And those male cows have to go somewhere. A dairy farm can't raise them. Most of them are given over to veal. And not necessarily French veal, the nightmare of little calves in boxes. Some go to grass farms where they grow up and live a pretty good life before they're sent off to slaughter. We live near one such veal farm. I'll have to tell you more about it someday.
For now, it's the same with goats. Male goats are a "by-product" of the goat dairy industry. Do you like goat cheese? Goat milk? Goat yogurt? There are baby male goats at hand. And something must be done with them.
OK, enough of that. Back to the roast goat. We got this baby from our local goat dairy. It came in about 17 pounds.
And yes, I felt a little weak in the knees at first. The man carried it out to our car like a baby. He set it in the backseat on a plastic tarp. We drove home in silence. What do you say when there's something like that in your backseat?
If you want to know more about why being weak in the knees is the right reaction, read our ham tome. There's a whole discussion about my reaction to our pig.
Bruce then rubbed it down in a triple batch of the schwarma rub from our goat tome (which you can find here). Basically, it's this: put 12 to 15 garlic cloves through a garlic press and into a small bowl; mix in 6 tablespoons (45 ml) olive oil, 2 tablespoons salt, 1 1/2 tablespoons ground mace, 1 1/2 tablespoons ground cardamom, 1 1/2 tablespoons mild paprika, 1 tablespoon ground cinnamon, 1 tablespoon ground cumin, and 1 1/2 teaspoons cayenne.
Slice the shanks off the goat, one off each leg. Save these back for another day. Rub the spice mixture all over the goat, inside and out.
And yes, I was glad I'm the writer, not the chef. In fact, I did have to step out of the kitchen. I had to go to the front door and get a breath of fresh air. Then I came back to it. But it shook me, no doubt about it.
Cover the goat--a big trash bag works best--and let it sit with its rub in the fridge for up to 2 days.
Then fire up the grill with the rotisserie ready to go. You want it about 300F (145C). A very low heat. Bruce turned on the two, far, outside ranks of his gas grill. You could also build a charcoal bed and rake the coals to the perimeter--not too many coals, a low fire, but more charcoal at the ready for when you need it.
Skewer the goat. You'll need to tie it onto the skewer with butchers' twine, pulling the legs back and tucking in the front legs. It's gruesome. Seriously. But you've come this far.
Set the rotisserie going, cover the grill, and go away. Maintain that low fire for about 3 hours. The turning goat will baste itself.
Then turn the fire down farther, to about 200F (95C). Bruce shut down one of the gas ranks. Keep the grill covered and the goat turning for about 2 more hours. You want the joints to be very loose, the cartilage beginning to melt. You'll need to go by feel, wiggling the joints on the animal. It should be just about ready to fall off the skewer. But low and slow is the only answer.
Afterwards, you can chunk it into bits, taking parts off the bones. It'll serve 12, maybe 15. And it's beyond. Simply. A crazy feast. And potentially the most insane thing I have ever blogged. Here's to goat, in all its incarnations. Have you tried it yet?
Reader Comments (5)
I have eaten goat quite often. Baby goat too, but I have never roasted one myself. I am surprised how small it was and how easily it fit on the spit. GREG
Want two new best friends? I love meat AND I owned a Yarn store when we lived in Northern Calif. Please...we are really swell people that love goat.
I am so glad I found you guys again--I wanted to thanks you for the inspiration to make lemon chutney, and now, this goat. I am so gonna do this sometime this summer.
Possibly gruesome to some, but , hey we eat it, we should know where it comes from.
My daughter and I bought a pig last year, and we named it, and every time we make sausage or cook a fresh ham. we drink to the pig.
...and you dance with your dog....
@Greg: Well, small? I guess. 17 pounds seemed huge at the time. Eight for dinner and leftovers galore.
@Janis: We're always up for more! And knitting? I don't do the fiber arts. But I wear them. Bruce takes care of the knitting on his own.
@Sharon: Happy back again together! You should read the ham tome about our first pig. We now have one every year. We always say thanks to Wilbur IV--soon, Wilbur V. But dancing with a collie does seem more fun. At least for Bruce (that's him in the pic).
M.
this is very nice blog. thanks for sharing