Somewhere in the recesses of my subconscious someone planted a positive association with goat cheese, which is why I bought some this weekend at a church fundraiser.

I happily parted with my euros for the neat little tub of soft spreadable white cheese seasoned with bright green chives. I imagined gently swirling it on whole wheat crackers and eating it with the vegetable soup I’d made the day before.

E looked at me and said, “Ummm, I don’t like goat cheese.”

“Really?” I’m genuinely surprised.

“Yeah, it’s got a wild taste to it.”

I shrug my shoulders, undeterred. It looks so fresh and so delicious.

Oh, Gentle Readers, I was so, so wrong.

Later in the day, when I spread the goat cheese on a Triscuit, the initial splash of flavor was salty, creamy, and oniony—and then a millisecond later--WHAM! My tastebuds were bitch-slapped by the WILD THANG. Gah! Get that out of my mouth!

That cheese tasted like a petting zoo smells in the summer time—think musky, sweaty, goat balls.

"Bleah! Bleah! Bleah!" I bleated.

I was overwhelmed with an urge to wash my hands, brush my teeth, and pop an Altoid all at the same time.

I wished I could shake the taste off my tongue but it clung like Velcro to the fringe on a scarf.

The taste vividly brought back unpleasant memories of my brother’s brief foray into goat keeping and life on the farm with Fritz the Stinky He Goat. Once as I was approaching the house, Fritz wrapped his front legs around me and tried to mount me.

Y’all, I was about 13 when I  lost my innocence in the traumatic attempted goat rape. With Fritz butting his head into my back, I understood for the first time where the term “horny” came from and why lascivious men were called “old goats.”

And the origin of goat cheese?

I don’t even want to think about it.

January 28, 2007

Copyright 2007 Veronica McCabe Deschambault and V-Grrrl in the Middle. All rights reserved.