My birthday falls in August and for the past two summers I have hosted a goat roast on the 4-acre farm I co-manage in the Southern Rio Grande Valley of Albuquerque, New Mexico. More than an outdoor party, the process of slaughtering and then cooking a young goat in an underground fire pit has become a significant seasonal ritual.
I glanced at our half skinned animal, now almost fully transformed from living creature to edible product. No turning back now.
Beyond that, I’ve fallen in love with the taste of the meat, one of the world’s most distinct and evocative flavors. If you think that sounds crazy, you’re probably American. Though goat accounts for 70 percent of all red meat consumed worldwide – as cabrito, capretto, or ndafu – the United States is one of the last places where it is still considered exotic.
When I hosted my first roast I had a comrade-in arms: John Gould, a local farmer who has pastured goats in the South Valley for 40 years. John provided the kid for slaughter, and generously offered to assist me in the process. John has raised and slaughtered goats his entire life. Midway through processing our beast, I asked him about his favorite way to prepare goat. He paused. “I’ve never much liked the taste of it, to be honest.” This was concerning. If the farmer who provided the goat wasn’t sure about tucking into a plate of tacos cabrito, who would be? I glanced at our half skinned animal, now almost fully transformed from living creature to edible product. No turning back now.
A goat.
Skinning the goat.
Continuing to skin the goat.
Wrapping the brined goat in aluminum foil.
Killing a goat and cooking it underground – in August, in the desert – is no small task.
First, you must dig a massive hole in parched soil. Then, line the hole with 200 pounds of old brick. The pit floor is then covered with a layer of lava rock. On the morning of the roast, you must wake at 3:30am to start a proper fire. Bring a sharp axe because you will be splitting wood to feed the flames for at least four hours.
Consider it this way: A goat, born in February, is raised and fattened through spring, then stuffed with apples from trees pruned in March, onions that were planted in April, herbs planted in May, before the meat is garnished with cucumbers pickled in June and summer-ripened tomatoes.
Meanwhile, you must clean, trim, stuff, rub, tie, wrap in parchment, wrap in foil, bind in baling wire, and finally, carefully, lower a goat into the extremely hot pit. Now, you must wait an entire day.
It is crucial to maintain faith that the goat is actually cooking down there and not simply sitting on the coals of a dying fire. You are, after all, responsible for feeding a crowd you invited. More importantly, you are responsible for doing right by that goat you chose to kill. “Thank You, Brother Goat,” we say before the cut. A blessing for the beast – and for ourselves.
In the creation myth of the Delaware Indians, the tribe lives under a lake until one of its hunters spies a deer through a hole in the water. He kills and consumes the deer, delighting in the sweetness and richness of the earthly meat. He then releases his tribe to populate the land. Thus, life is generated from death.
Of course, a birthday goat roast is not a ritualized creation myth. But it does enact a kind of midsummer pageant, honoring the preceding seasons, and the work dedicated to those months. Consider it this way: A goat, born in February, is raised and fattened through spring, then stuffed with apples from trees pruned in March, onions that were planted in April, herbs planted in May, before the meat is garnished with cucumbers pickled in June and summer-ripened tomatoes. This feast focuses our attention on a moment of bounty in the natural cycle of a year.
For me, the burdens of hosting a roast – the kill, the fire, the labor, the wait – are worth it for that first taste of rib meat. I can peel it off the pale bones effortlessly, using only my fingertips. The taste is mineral, like lamb, and fat-rich, like marbled beef. Yet it is also entirely unlike those meats. Goat is distinctly sweet. It is earthy, and not only because I have cooked it in hot earth. The flavor is earthy in the way that a mushroom or any other wild, pungent food that actually holds the taste of its soil.
Nestled on a warm corn tortilla with a drip of bitter red chile sauce and a spoonful of sour pickled onions, the entire package is supreme bliss. In one little taco, ancient Aztecan culinary wisdom merges with the crops and animals that we have grown and raised by hand, in our small, shared stretch of the Rio Grande Valley. I glimpse John carefully turning over the beast to pull a forkful of succulent, untouched meat that has been resting in its juices. “My fifth,” he says, smiling as he catches my eye.
The goat feast.
Waiting for the goat to be finished cooking.
Digging the hole to roast the goat.
Goat tacos.
Roasted Goat
Roasting whole animals is ancient. The original BBQ. Techniques vary across cultures and generations. In Oaxaca they wrap the meat in banana leaves. Other cultures use soaked Agave leaves. I have known friends who done it in giant, metal containers specially designed to fit in an underground hole. My method here is as simple as it gets. Everything I use can be sourced from a garden and a basic grocery store.
The Slaughter
One or two days before the roast, choose a young goat, around 6 months is ideal. Holding the goat down, make a swift, deep cut in its neck. This kills the animal.
Meanwhile, tie a rope around its back leg and rig a method for lifting the animal so that it will hang by this rope. We swung the rope over a thick, high tree branch and tied the other end to our truck hitch. By driving the truck forward slightly, the goat lifted.
Start by skinning. Make entry point cuts through the skin only at the neck and the ankles. Separate the skin from the muscle and fat with a knife and pull the skin away as you go. It should peel off easily. Eventually, you will be able to slip off the entire coat.
With a saw, remove feet and head. You can reserve the head for consommé. Eviscerate. Wash the body down with a hose to remove any remaining dirt, hairs or unwanted bits.
Make a brine solution with 5 percent salinity (50 grams of salt per liter of water) I also add a few generous handfuls of peppercorns and a bag of brown sugar (approximately 900 grams).
Fill a large Rubbermaid tote (or other sturdy, lidded container) with brine solution and lower goat into the tub, making sure that it is completely submerged. Add several bags of ice to chill. Cover and leave in a cool, dark space for 24 hours.
On the Morning of the Roast
Start the fire. Keep a strong fire going for at least four full hours. Feed with hardwood. In New Mexico we use applewood and Pinon. Elm in a pinch. Think of it as preheating a very large, very primitive oven.
Remove goat from brine. Rinse and pat dry. Trim any excess fat or hard tissues.
Roll out a sheet of parchment paper large enough for the entire goat to rest upon. Rub the meat with salt, cracked black pepper and oil.
Gather various fruits, vegetables, alliums and fresh herbs – whatever is available to you. I used several different apples, red and white onions, thyme, sage, garlic and oregano. Stuff the cavity of the goat completely and scatter any remaining fruits around the meat on the paper. Using butchers twine, sew the cavity closed.
Fold the parchment around the goat, crimping the edges to seal. Lay down a second sheet of parchment (oriented the opposite way) and wrap the goat again. Do this as many times as it takes to seal the meat completely.
Follow the same steps with aluminum foil. Be sure the goat is entirely sealed. Even a tiny tear will leak juice and result in dry meat. So, wrap well. Finally, wrap baling wire around the sealed foil package like a present and form the excess wire into handles.
Shovel out 90 percent of the hot coals and very carefully lower goat into the pit (as well as any other sealed food you want to cook. We also did a pork shoulder and two roosters. Small packages should rest on top of the largest).
Cover pit with corrugated metal lid. Shovel a thin layer of hot coals onto the lid. Cover lid with 8 to 12 inches of dirt to seal the heat below.
Wait.
I imagine every homemade roasting pit is different, but in ours, 9 hours was perfection and 12 was too much. Anywhere between 8 and 10 hours should result in succulent meat.
When you simply cannot stand it any longer, uncover. Remove dirt layer, metal lid and finally, the goat. Tear open the layers of foil and paper. Inhale (this might be the best moment). Feast. Share. Feast.
So when you remove 90 percent of the coals, do you put em back in the pit once the goat is in place or is the 10 percent of coals used to cook the goat? Do you completely surround the goat with coals before adding dirt back to the pit? Also, what were the dimensions of your dirt pit?