IAS 380R Baby Goats in Bretagne

  
Small Cultural Proof

       After a Young Single Adult activity in Rennes, I had several hours before my train would leave. I was with some members from Rennes and another girl from Poitiers, who would be taking my same train. One of the boys invited us to his house until it was time for Sarah and me to catch our train. He lived on a farm. We walked in the door to the house and my heart melted when I saw his dad sitting on an old rocking chair with a baby goat in his arms and a bottle, and two more goats in a box at his feet. They were 6 days old, and the mom had died a just few days after they were born. I actually thought they were lambs for a while, until I caught on. I wanted so bad to take a picture, but as we talked they joked about an American family who came to visit them for Thanksgiving and how they documented with a camera every step of the turkey choosing, killing, cooking, eating process. I was too shy to set it up for them to later joke about the American girl who got a kick out of the “lambs” in the bucket. The dad was gentle with them, but at the same time he didn’t handle them like one would handle a pet. He handled them, of course, like a farmer would handle his stock. I wasn’t sure what the outcome of these little helpless animals would be, and I didn’t want to know. My French isn’t good enough to pick up on things I’m not trying to pick up on. However, unavoidably, I eventually heard him say, “Yeah, they’ll sure be good on a plate!” and I knew he wasn’t joking.
    My friends went outside to have a “lovers’ quarrel” leaving me awkwardly with the entire family. The goats finished their meal and went back outside to the barn. I started talking to the mom about cooking; she had made a far breton with prunes, and being less familiar with cuisine bretonne, I had never seen one before. She printed up the recipe for me, and also gave me a thorough and insightful discourse about which spices are hard on your stomach and what she uses with what. She said she never cooks with pepper, as it’s actually terrible for you (something I find somewhat amusing, because I’ve met another woman from Brittany who never ever cooks with salt, and of course has quite strong opinions on it, but uses pepper frequently). We all shared the far breton, which I quite enjoyed, since I’ve always been a lover of flans and custards, and this resembles the two.
    When it was time to leave, I took my recipe to make my own far breton and my new knowledge about the turmoils of pepper, and was glad to never have to see those baby goats on my plate.