So when I was around 10, my grandparents took me on a road trip across half the country in their banana yellow Oldsmobile. They had done something similiar with my older sister, and would also do it with my younger cousin. Sort of a clan initiation rite, I suppose.
One of our destinations was my great-uncle's farm in Colorado. He had a spread of a couple acres, upon which he attempted to grow fruit trees. I say attempted, because gentleman farming was not what my unlce loved, it was singing. So the farm limped along while he tried to finance his recording career.
From what I can remember, being a Los Angeles native, it was the first time I had ever been on a farm for longer than perhaps ten minutes. I was taken on a grand tour my second day there. It had a pretty stream flowing through it on the eastern side. A few acres is considered nothing in the farming world, but to my eyes, it looked huge.
On the western side, the property abutting my great-uncle's was a goat farm. This was the first time that I got to experience goats outside of a petting zoo. There were lots and lots of goats, and the smell was what I immediately noticed. No surprise there. But I did like them, and I got to pet some of them, despite their attempts to eat my shorts through the fence. Apparently, these were not just any old goats, but prize-winning goats. I was proudly informed that they produced excellent cheeses and milk.
News to me that goats could make milk.
Hey, I was only 10, give me a break.
They wanted me to try some, and I refused for whatever weird reason that was floating in my young head. I probably thought the milk tasted as bad as the goats smelled.
A couple mornings later, my great aunt cooked up a big country breakfast. I don't think there was anything she left out. Pancakes, bacon, eggs, biscuits, gravy, not a food group was spared.
I had just finished my drink when my grandfather, with a completely deadpan face, asked me if I liked the milk I had just drunk.
You see where this is going, right?
Oh yes, I said, it was some of the best milk I had ever tasted. Uproarious laughter ensued, and I was confused. I sat patiently for a bit, and then it dawned on me. I shrieked, finally realizing the joke that had been played on me. It was the prize-winning goat's milk, and they had plotted this whole breakfast to distract me. Just to teach me a lesson.
You may now cease wondering where I get my sense of humor.
Definitely from my father's side of the family.
But ever since then, I have had a difficult time trusting goats.
Does this partial title ring a bell with anyone?