WE’D COME TO the Pachecos’ dairy and Achadinha Cheese Company in Sonoma County, California, on a brilliant morning, the thunderstorms of the night before a distant dream. Jim and Donna herd their goats near enough to the coast that the golden hills begin to stack up on each other, crumpled cloth. The Pachecos’ is a family business that has stood the test, started back in the mid-fifties and still running in these tough times.
As we pulled up the long driveway to the house and buildings clustered on a topknot, we were met first by some friendly farm dogs—who quickly showed us to Donna, a bright force on her own, still full of optimism about the business. We stood outside in the morning breeze, did the usual farmish introductions (which devolve into questions of families) and then went off to see the girls: eighteen hundred goats, living dormitory style in open barns. Soon, we were surrounded by contented, curious ruminants, chewing, head-butting, trying to get our attention, and trying to get the top position on little bits of log or even in the food trough.
That goaty smell? I barely noticed it. In fact, I felt comforted by it. It was simply farm. Not industrial farm. Not the nightmare of pigs in coffin-shaped pens, unable to move even when giving birth. Not the horror story of thousands of chickens stacked so deep, they peck each other to death. No, this was just a goat farm, the biggest we’d see, but still not a factory in any way.
It had to be big. The Pachecos supply milk to some pretty important yogurt and cheese producers. They also make some pretty fine Italian-style, olive-oil-washed cheeses on their own.
As we talked, the goats filed out the back of the barns, a few at a time, udders full. Most dairies have to coax the animals into the milking parlor with food. But these goats went into the line about twenty at a time with nary a bribe, waiting patiently outside the milking parlor. Well, patiently for goats.
“You want to watch the milking?” Donna said, her eyes beaming.
If you’ve ever been on a dairy farm, you know that’s not a simple invitation. It involves sanitizing your shoes, putting on plastic caps, cleaning just about everything on you. We were undeterred.
Suited up and in the parlor, we watched a group of about twenty goats climb the steps to the milking stand. They turned and faced the wall, almost on cue: a perfect chorus line, their butts toward us, front feet up a step.
Out of the blue, Donna turned to Bruce and asked, rather innocently, if he wanted to have a go at milking.
Another complicated invitation. This time, he shot me a look. What have you gotten me into?
Sure, I’ve milked before. I have relatives who are farmers. I could even tell you about the time I ended up shoulder deep in a cow, learning how to inseminate it. But that’s for another day. This was Bruce’s time. And his first with a mammary of any sort. I motioned him on.
I swear he giggled. Like a schoolboy.
Goats have two udders; cows, four. Because goats are not as meaty as cows, the udders pop right out the back of their legs, particularly when they put their front legs up on a step. There’s not a lot intervening between you and those udders.
Donna washed a pair with iodine, then stepped back. “Go ahead. Just take ahold.”
He did—like he holds a knitting needle, between two fingers.
“Whole hand,” Donna said. “Around the udder.”
He giggled again, then sort of shook himself and bore down on the task. He wrapped his hand around the udder and squeezed.
Nothing happened.
“That’s everyone’s first time,” Donna said.
“I thought I was going to hurt her,” he said.
“She’s been around the block.”
She didn’t look it. Her brown hair was shiny and beautiful, almost combed. But I swear she did turn around and throw him a look. Are we getting on with this or what?
So he squeezed and pulled, running the tension through his fingers and down the udder.
A thin wire of milk shot across the parlor.
“My God,” he said, stepping back.
“You’ll get the hang of it.” Donna laughed.
Somehow, I doubted it.
There may be no more iconic goat milk sweet than cajeta (Spanish, kah-HAY-tah), a creamy, silky caramel that’s long-cooked to a thick sauce, then stored in the fridge for months, only to be rewarmed until pourable when needed. (Often.)
4 cups (960 ml) regular goat milk (do not use low-fat)
⅛ teaspoon baking soda stirred until smooth in 2 teaspoons water
1 cup (200 g) sugar
1. Bring the milk to a low simmer in a large saucepan over medium heat.
2. Pour in the soda mixture, which will cause the milk to rise in the pan. Stir it down, then stir in the sugar.
3. After bringing the mixture back to a full boil, reduce the heat a bit. (To medium? Medium-low? It depends on your stove and how much heat it puts out.) Cook at a very low boil, stirring occasionally, for 1 hour.
4. Now the hard part. Clip a candy thermometer to the inside of the pan and continue cooking, stirring constantly, until the internal temperature registers 236°F (113°C) (that is, soft-ball stage) and the cajeta is thick and golden, about 30 minutes, maybe longer, depending on the day’s humidity and the residual fat content of the milk. Cool the hot cajeta for about 10 minutes in the pan, then pour it into a heat-safe glass jar or glass container of some sort, perhaps a canning jar. Cover and store in the refrigerator for up to 2 months. Reheat it in dribs and drabs in a bowl in the microwave, or set the whole storage jar in a warm water bath in a medium saucepan over low heat for a few minutes, until the cajeta is again spoonable.
This is honest-to-goodness candy making, so you’ll need a candy thermometer and a good eye for detail to pull off this cross between chocolate and goat milk—all of which makes a perfect fudge: decadent, a little tart, very adult. The kids will probably want something sweeter. Good for them. More for you.
3 cups (600 g) sugar
1½ cups (360 ml) regular goat milk (do not use low-fat)
4 ounces (115 g) unsweetened chocolate, chopped
¼ cup (60 ml) light corn syrup
¼ teaspoon salt
⅛ teaspoon cream of tartar
2 tablespoons goat butter, plus extra for buttering the loaf pan
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1. Whisk the sugar, milk, chocolate, corn syrup, salt, and cream of tartar in a large saucepan set over medium-low heat until barely bubbling.
2. Clip a candy thermometer to the inside of the pan, adjust the heat so that the mixture simmers slowly, and continue heating without stirring until the temperature registers 236°F (113°C) (soft-ball stage).
3. Remove the pan from the heat and dollop the butter on top. It will melt, forming a protective barrier over the hot fudge in the pan. Keep the candy thermometer clipped to the pan’s inside and cool on a wire rack until the fudge’s temperature underneath the butter is 110°F (43°C), a couple of hours, maybe several, depending on the day’s temperature and humidity. Busy yourself by buttering the inside of a 5 x 9-inch (12 x 23-cm) loaf pan.
4. Remove the candy thermometer from the fudge. With an electric mixer at medium speed, beat the top layer of butter and the vanilla into the chocolate mixture until the mixture loses its sheen, 1 to 3 minutes. However, timing is very hard. There are many factors at play. You’re looking for it to lose any shine—and that’s not long at all. It’s better to underbeat it and have the fudge a little soft and gooey than to overbeat it and have it crystallized and grainy. People practice for years with fudge.
5. Pour and scrape the fudge into the prepared loaf pan. Let stand at room temperature until set, about 4 hours. After that, cover the pan and store at room temperature for up to 5 days. Cut it right out of the pan, taking out slices, then cutting these into smaller bits. If the fudge has been underbeaten a tad, you can set the loaf pan in the fridge to firm the whole thing up—but you won’t have that same, velvety texture. That said, you’ll still have fudge; so how bad can that be?
Here’s our second, out-of-the-ballpark combo of chocolate and goat milk—a duo that makes an incredibly elegant pudding, rich and intense. Again, because of the increased flavors in the milk, we need more chocolate. Lots more. From three sources: cocoa powder, white chocolate, and unsweetened chocolate.
3 cups (720 ml) regular or low-fat goat milk
⅓ cup (65 g) sugar
6 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder, preferably Dutch-processed
⅓ cup (40 g) all-purpose flour
2½ ounces (70 g) white chocolate, chopped
1 ounce (30 g) unsweetened chocolate, chopped
3 large egg yolks, at room temperature, whisked until creamy in a big bowl
¼ teaspoon almond extract
¼ teaspoon salt
1. Whisk the milk, sugar, cocoa powder, flour, white chocolate, and unsweetened chocolate in a large saucepan set over medium heat until thick and bubbling, about 5 minutes.
Flour in chocolate pudding? Indeed. With this much added fat coming from the chocolates, flour helps protect the mixture, particularly keeping the egg yolks from scrambling as they come in contact with the hot fat bits.
2. Whisk about half the hot chocolate mixture into the egg yolks until smooth, then whisk this combined mixture back into the remaining chocolate mixture in the pan.
3. Reduce the heat to low. If you’re working on an electric stove, the burner’s temperature may not drop quickly enough, so put the saucepan over a burner just now turned to low. Bring the chocolate mixture to a very low simmer, just a few bubbles; then reduce the heat even further. Cook for 1 minute, whisking constantly.
4. Remove the pan from the heat. Whisk in the almond extract and salt. Pour into 6 individual ramekins or 1 larger serving bowl. If you’re at all concerned about lumps, strain the mixture through a fine-mesh sieve. Refrigerate for at least 1 hour, then cover and keep refrigerated for up to 3 days.
MORE TO KNOW
Dutch-processed cocoa powder includes an alkali that improves the cocoa’s ability to dissolve in liquids. Without that chemical addition, some of the cocoa solids can prove resistant to liquefying. That said, if you only have so-called natural cocoa powder, it’ll work just fine in this recipe—you’ll just have to whisk more aggressively over the heat to get it to dissolve.
Gelato is Italian ice cream, except there’s often no cream. Traditionally, it’s made with whole milk and lots of eggs (although some gelateria in Italy now add cream to satisfy the tastes of tourists). In the case of goat milk, there’s a little less dairy fat than in Italian whole-cow-milk production (although there is more than in American cow milk production). Bruce’s answer to all this? A little goat butter in the mix for that classic smooth, rich finish. Ever wanted to butter your ice cream? Oh, come on, you know you have.
3 cups (720 ml) regular goat milk
1 tablespoon goat butter
1 vanilla bean, split in half lengthwise
7 large egg yolks, at room temperature
½ cup (100 g) plus 2 tablespoons sugar
¼ teaspoon salt
1. Heat the goat milk, butter, and split vanilla bean in a large saucepan set over medium heat until bubbles start to fizz around the pan’s inner edges and whiffs of steam rise off the milk. Cover and set aside at room temperature for 1 hour.
2. Remove the vanilla bean halves. Lay them, cut side up, on a work surface and run a small knife along the bean, gathering up the seeds. Scrape these back into the milk mixture, then set the pan over low heat. Do not let the mixture boil, or the taste will become too much like canned evaporated milk. Instead, just keep it warm during the next step.
3. Beat the egg yolks, sugar, and salt in a big bowl with an electric mixer at medium speed until creamy, thick, pale yellow, and even fluffy, about 8 minutes, scraping down the inside of the bowl once in a while to make sure all the sugar is getting beaten with the eggs.
4. Remove the saucepan from the heat. Beat about half the warm goat milk mixture into the egg mixture until smooth, then beat this combined mixture back into the remaining warm goat milk mixture.
5. Return the saucepan to the stove and reduce the heat to very low. On an electric stove, use a different burner, just now set to low. Cook, stirring constantly—do not leave it alone—until the custard is somewhat thickened, almost like melted ice cream or nearly set pudding. It should coat the back of a wooden spoon in such a way that when you run your finger through the coating, the line you make is permanent, the mixture not flowing back in place, perhaps 4 to 5 minutes.
6. Strain the hot custard through a fine-mesh sieve and into a pitcher or other container. Cover and refrigerate for at least 4 hours or (preferably) overnight.
7. Prepare an ice cream maker according to the manufacturer’s instructions. For the creamiest gelato, put the dasher, lid, and any other pieces in the freezer for 15 minutes before using them. The colder they are, the less air you’ll beat into the mixture—and so the creamier the gelato.
8. Pour in the custard and freeze according to the manufacturer’s instructions until thick, creamy, and scoopable yet still soft. Scrape the gelato into a bowl or a clean container—if you can wait—and set it on the floor of your freezer to firm up. However, the gelato tastes best when it’s a little melty, so remove from the freezer for 10 minutes or so before scooping it up.
You’ll need to strain the yogurt to get it thick enough to make a creamy frozen dessert. For instructions on how to strain the yogurt, see More to Know. If you end up with more strained yogurt than you need for this recipe, you’ll have a treat for breakfast the next day: a creamy, rich, thick yogurt, sort of like Greek-style yogurt.
12 ounces (340 g) fresh raspberries
3 tablespoons raspberry-flavored liqueur, such as framboise
1 cup (240 ml) regular or low-fat goat milk
2 large eggs, at room temperature
¾ cup (170 g) sugar
¼ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon cornstarch or potato starch
1 cup (240 ml) strained whole goat yogurt
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1. Put the raspberries and the raspberry liqueur in a large blender or a food processor fitted with the chopping blade. Blend or process until pureed.
2. Strain the puree through a fine-mesh sieve into a bowl to remove any seeds. You should end up with about 1 cup (240 ml) raspberry puree.
3. Heat the milk in a large saucepan set over medium-low heat until little bubbles fizz around the pan’s inner edges.
4. Meanwhile, beat the eggs, sugar, and salt in a large bowl with an electric mixer at medium-high speed until light, fluffy, and thick, about 5 minutes. Beat in the cornstarch.
5. Remove the saucepan from the heat. Beat half the hot milk into the egg mixture until smooth, then beat this combined mixture back into the remaining hot milk in the pan until smooth.
6. Set the pan back over the heat, now reduced to low. If you’re working on an electric stove, use a burner just now turned on to low. Cook, stirring constantly, until the mixture thickens and can coat the back of a wooden spoon (see step 5, this page, for a fuller explanation), about 4 minutes.
7. Strain this mixture through a fine-mesh sieve into a large bowl to remove any bits of inadvertently scrambled egg. Stir in the raspberry puree as well as the strained yogurt and the vanilla, all until smooth. Set the bowl in the fridge and chill for at least 4 hours or overnight. (Cover it if you’re chilling it for more than 4 hours.)
8. Freeze the raspberry yogurt mixture in an ice cream machine according to the manufacturer’s instructions. Serve right from the machine or scoop the frozen yogurt into a large bowl, cover, and store in the freezer for up to 2 weeks.
MORE TO KNOW
To strain yogurt, line a colander with cheesecloth or a big coffee filter. Pour in the yogurt—about double the amount you’ll need when strained—and set the full strainer over a bowl to catch the drips. Refrigerate overnight or up to 24 hours. The resulting yogurt will certainly be thicker, less like a slightly soured milk, the way goat yogurt sometimes can be.
Nanna dropped by on Thursday afternoons, along with the rest of the girls. They came once I decided we were going to be green and goaty. That is, after I hired a goat lawn-mowing service.
We live in a very rural part of New England. We have an acre cleared. I thought goats were our answer.
Mostly because I don’t mow. I have to draw the line somewhere. When we first bought the house, I drove to the local store that sold well pumps, generators, and other curiosities of country life.
I climbed up on a riding mower and felt instantly backlit by klieg lights. Like Liberace on a rugby team.
I pictured me in a cap. One with a logo. And a cup holder nearby. I got down, walked out, and called a guy down the road from us.
“How much to mow?”
“Forty bucks,” he said. “Cash.”
Done. And easy. Until I decided to let him go to try this goat mowing thing.
Lest you think I was nuts, the lawn-mowing goatherd had a full schedule. “You’re about the last I can take on,” he said. “How about Thursdays?”
“Wow, a prime spot.”
“Most people want earlier in the week.”
I didn’t hear the warning. I wanted a nice lawn. I wanted to reduce my carbon footprint. And I wanted to be a little morally superior. It should be easy to connect those things up.
The first Thursday, I was agog. There was a herd of goats across our lawn.
And then in our flower beds. I saw a stalk of purple echinacea go down. I ran outside. “They can’t eat that!”
The goatherd gave me that blank New England stare. “What? The weeds?”
“I planted those!”
He harrumphed, got off his truck, and headed over to the offending goat, which was already chomping another stalk. “Out of there,” he said. Not very forcefully, might I add.
“I’m serious,” I said, a little panicked.
“How much am I charging you?”
“Twenty. You said this is food for your goats.”
He looked back down at the echinacea. “Uh-huh.”
He did manage to get the goat out of the flower beds. Mostly because he let his dog out of his truck. The lawn soon morphed into a green carpet studded with reddish goats and wiped with a blur of border collie. In minutes, the does were rounded into a nice pack, chewing down the broadleaf.
I could see what Bill Niman meant. They tended the ground, careful to take everything down without pawing up the roots. They weren’t as heavy as cows. Or the occasional moose that uses our apple trees as an all-you-can-eat buffet.
I went back inside and found Bruce testing recipes. I was beaming, full of my own self-importance.
A while later, the goats were rounded back up and in the truck. I saw it head down our quarter-mile driveway, disappearing among the trees.
I went outside, so proud. And that’s when I noticed it. The goat poop everywhere. And we had friends coming in twenty-four hours.
I got a shovel and started tossing the pellets into the woods. An hour later, my resolve was less pristine. I came in and Bruce handed me a scotch.
I figured I just had to get used to it. And then came the next week. And more downed echinacea. And more border collie. And more poop. And more friends on their way.
And then another week.
“There sure is a lot to pick up after they leave,” I said to my goatherd.
“That’s why people like to start earlier in the week.”
Another week and I gave up, threw in the towel, called my forty-dollar lawn guy, who had suddenly become my fifty-dollar lawn guy.
Well, at least my do-gooder resolve knows another of its boundaries.
Books are collaborative efforts. Yes, there are two of us here; but there’s also a bevy of recipe-testers. Dale Brown is one of the latter, a go-to crackerjack in the kitchen. She’s worked on half the books we’ve written, taking the recipes after I’ve set them into print and testing to see if she gets the same results we do. We visited her in California not too long ago and she served this delicious make-ahead chocolate panna cotta (Italian, pah-NAH coh-TAH—that is, baked cream). Bruce instantly came home and tried her recipe with goat milk, to which he also added strained goat yogurt to provide some body, where cream did the duty in Dale’s cowier version.
1¾ cups (420 ml) regular goat milk (do not use low-fat), divided
2 teaspoons unflavored gelatin (that is, less than one %-ounce [10~g] packet)
⅔ cup (150 g) sugar
3 ounces (85 g) semisweet chocolate (about 55% cocoa solids), chopped
3 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder, preferably Dutch-processed
Goat butter, for greasing the ramekins
1½ cups (360 ml) strained regular goat yogurt (do not use low-fat; see this page)
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
¼ teaspoon salt
1. Pour ½ cup (120 ml) of the milk into a bowl, then sprinkle the gelatin over the top. Set aside for 30 minutes at room temperature.
2. Heat the remaining 1¼ cups (300 ml) milk, the sugar, chocolate, and cocoa powder in a large saucepan set over medium heat, whisking all the while, until smooth and steaming.
3. Remove the pan from the heat and whisk in the milk-gelatin mixture until smooth. Cool at room temperature for 30 minutes. Meanwhile, lightly butter the insides of six 1-cup (240-ml) ramekins.
4. Whisk the strained yogurt, vanilla, and salt into the goat-milk mixture until smooth. Pour this into the prepared ramekins, about ¾ cup (180 ml) in each. Refrigerate for at least 4 hours or until set—or store in the fridge for up to 3 days, covering the ramekins with plastic wrap after 4 hours. To unmold, fill a bowl with hot tap water, then dip each ramekin about halfway into the hot water for a couple of seconds. Run a thin knife around the inside of the ramekin and then invert over a serving plate to let the panna cotta plop out, shaking the ramekin a bit as necessary to get the thing to come unstuck.
Here, a caramel-lined loaf pan is filled with a rich goat-milk custard, baked, and chilled, before being turned out onto a platter so that the sauce runs all over the top. You must plan ahead with this dish because it must sit in the fridge at least overnight. In the end, the goat milk works wonders with the honey—this is a natural combination that you might also want to implement in your honey cake or quick bread recipes.
2 cups (500 ml) regular or low-fat goat milk
One 4-inch (one 10-cm) cinnamon stick
1 vanilla bean, split in half lengthwise
Several tiny black seeds from a green cardamom pod, perhaps 4 to 6, crushed with the side of a knife
2 cups (400 g) sugar, divided
¼ cup (60 ml) honey
¼ cup (60 ml) water
4 large eggs plus 4 large egg yolks, at room temperature, whisked in bowl until smooth
Boiling water
1. Heat the milk, cinnamon stick, vanilla bean, and cardamom seeds in a large pot over medium heat until little bubbles rim the inside of the pot. Cover and set aside at room temperature for 1 hour.
2. Meanwhile, combine 1 cup (200 g) of the sugar, the honey, and the ¼ cup (60 ml) water in a skillet; stir over medium heat until the sugar melts.
3. Continue cooking, stirring occasionally, until the mixture turns golden brown—and is ridiculously hot. Pour it into a 5 × 9-inch (13 × 23-cm) heat-safe glass loaf pan, tilting the pan this way and that to get an even coating on the bottom.
4. Get the rack into the center of the oven, which you’re going to heat to 300°F (150°C).
5. Fish the cinnamon stick and vanilla bean out of the pot. If you want a more intense vanilla taste, you can scrape the little seeds from the insides of the vanilla bean halves and put the seeds back into the milk. Otherwise, discard the cinnamon stick and the vanilla bean halves.
6. Whisk the beaten eggs and egg yolks into the milk mixture, then whisk in the remaining 1 cup (200 g) sugar until smooth. Pour this mixture into the caramel-lined loaf pan.
7. Set the loaf pan in a deep baking dish or a roasting pan on the oven rack. Pour boiling water into the baking dish until it comes about halfway up the level of the custard inside the loaf pan.
8. Bake for 1½ hours. Carefully remove the loaf pan from the water bath and let cool on a wire rack to room temperature. Then cover and refrigerate at least overnight or up to 2 days.
9. To serve, run a thin knife around the inside of the loaf pan, loosening up the flan inside. Turn the pan upside down onto a lipped serving platter and let the flan loaf plop out. Allow any melted and runny caramel sauce to drizzle out of the pan and all over the flan. Cut the flan into slices to serve, like cutting a loaf of bread, but also scooping up some of the caramel sauce for each slice.
If you want to get fancy, call it Crème Brûlée au Lait de Chèvre. In other words, fired-up cream with goat milk. But it doesn’t matter what you call it—no one will be listening. They’ll be eating. Because these little desserts are the real deal: a creamy, silky custard on top of which a layer of sugar gets melted and caramelized, then hardens again so that you have to crack through it to get to the custard. And as if that’s not enough, the custard under there includes a double goat hit, because it’s made not only with goat milk but also with chèvre (or soft goat cheese).
2 cups (480 ml) regular or low-fat goat milk
4 large egg yolks, at room temperature
10 tablespoons (145 g) sugar, divided
3 ounces (85 g) fresh chèvre or soft goat cheese
Boiling water
1. Set the rack in the oven’s center and get the oven heated up to 325°F (165°C).
2. Whir up the milk, egg yolks, 6 tablespoons (85 g) of the sugar, and the fresh chèvre in a large blender or a food processor fitted with the chopping blade until the sugar and cheese are dissolved in the smooth mixture. Divide the mixture among four ¾-cup (180-ml) oven-safe ramekins. Cover each tightly with aluminum foil.
3. Place a deep baking dish or a roasting pan on the oven rack; then set the filled, covered ramekins in the dish or the pan, making sure they do not touch. Pour boiling water into the baking dish or pan until it comes about halfway up the ramekins’ sides.
4. Bake for 55 minutes, or until set. Of course, the custards are covered—so you’ll have to take a peek to see how they’re doing. They shouldn’t jiggle when set. But remember that the attendant water and the ramekins themselves are quite hot.
5. Very carefully transfer the baking dish or the roasting pan with the water and all the ramekins to a wire rack and cool for 20 minutes. Then transfer the covered ramekins to the fridge and chill for at least 6 hours or up to 3 days.
6. Uncover the ramekins and sprinkle the remaining 4 tablespoons sugar over them, 1 tablespoon on each. Now melt the sugar. You’ve got a couple of ways to do this:
Set the rack so that the ramekins will be about 5 inches (12 cm) from the broiler’s heat source. Fire up the broiler. Set the ramekins on a baking sheet, then place them so they’re directly under the hot broiler element. Leave them there until the sugar melts, turns brown, and coats the top of each, 2 to 4 minutes, depending on how strong your broiler element is. But remember this: The pottery is going to be subjected to intense heat. Delicate ceramic ramekins may crack.
Use a kitchen blowtorch to melt the sugar, pointing the flame directly at the top of each custard with its sugar coating and moving the flame in all directions until the sugar melts, bubbles, and browns.
In either case, cool the custards for 5 minutes to let the sugar get hard, then serve at once, the tops to be cracked open with a spoon to get to the light velvety custard underneath.
After years of trying it different ways, Bruce has settled on a formula for rice pudding that involves medium-grained arborio rice, the same rice used to make risotto. It gives the pudding a little more body than long-grained varietals. Don’t use a risotto recipe to cook the rice, abrading its starch into a thickening broth to create that fabulous dish. Instead, cook the rice according to the package instructions, as you would any rice. It’ll then go into this goaty version of Bruce’s favorite dessert—with fresh chèvre in the mix for good measure.
Goat butter, for greasing the baking dish
2 cups (455 g) cooked arborio rice
4 cups (960 ml) regular or low-fat goat milk
3 large eggs plus 3 large egg yolks, at room temperature
½ cup (100 g) sugar
2 tablespoons vanilla extract
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
4 ounces (115 g) fresh chèvre or soft goat cheese
1. Set the rack in the center of the oven and heat the oven up to 350°F (175°C). Butter the inside of a 10-inch (25-cm), round baking dish with a little fat on a wadded-up paper towel.
2. Whisk everything together in a big bowl until smooth and creamy. Pour the mixture into the prepared dish.
3. Bake until set when jiggled, about 45 minutes. Cool the pan on a wire rack for 10 minutes before dishing up the pudding. Or cool to room temperature, then cover and refrigerate for up to 3 days.
You can stir some dried fruit into the mix: apricots, raisins, pitted dates, even Chinese jujubes. Just make sure the fruit itself is diced into small bits. Otherwise, the whole dried fruit will plump and become a super-hot, mouth-burning bomb in the pudding as it bakes.
This is a goat yogurt take on a Southern favorite: buttermilk pie. Bruce’s crust calls for lard—because it’s so good—but feel free to use solid vegetable shortening if you really don’t want to go the distance. The small amount of lemon juice in the crust keeps the flour’s glutens from elongating into breadishness, thereby keeping the crust crisp and flaky.
For the crust:
1 cup (125 g) all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting
1 teaspoon sugar
¼ teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons cool unsalted goat butter, cut into pieces
2 tablespoons solid vegetable shortening or lard
3 tablespoons very cold water, even ice water, plus more as needed
½ teaspoon lemon juice
For the filling:
1½ cups (340 g) sugar
6 tablespoons (85 g) goat butter
3 large eggs, at room temperature
1 cup (240 ml) thick, but not necessarily fully strained, goat yogurt (see this page)
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1 tablespoon finely grated lemon zest
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1. Position the rack in the center of the oven and heat the oven to 350°F (175°C).
2. To make the crust, use a fork to stir 1 cup (25 g) flour, 1 teaspoon sugar, and the salt in a large bowl. Add the 4 tablespoons (55 g) goat butter bits and the shortening or lard. Use the tines of the fork or a pastry cutter to push the fat through the flour, constantly repositioning the tines so that the fat keeps getting worked into the mixture, until it all resembles coarse cornmeal.
3. Add the water and ½ teaspoon lemon juice; stir with a fork until a soft dough forms, adding a little more water in ½-teaspoon increments until a soft, pliable dough forms. The dough shouldn’t be too wet or it will stick. However, it should be wet enough that it coheres.
4. Sprinkle a clean, dry work surface with a few drops of water, then set a large piece of wax paper on top of it. Set the dough in the middle of the wax paper and flatten it with your palm until it is a thick disk. Lay a second piece of wax paper on top of the dough and roll the dough with a rolling pin until it’s a circle about 11 inches (28 cm) in diameter.
5. Peel off the top sheet of wax paper, then pick up the bottom sheet with the dough still adhering to it. Turn this upside down into a 9-inch (23-cm) pie plate. Position it directly in the center, then peel off the wax paper, pressing the dough into place to form the crust. Fold the dough at the rim so that it stands up a bit and is thick, then crimp the edges of the dough for a scalloped, decorative look. You can get the job done a couple of ways:
Take one hand and make a U out of your thumb and forefinger. Set this U inside the pie plate at the rim, right on the crust. Position the forefinger of your other hand on the outside of the pie plate so that that finger will fit right in the U. Now push your hands together, the one finger in the U, so that the crust makes a crimped indentation. Repeat this procedure all the way around the rim of the crust.
Push the crust into a crimped edge using the tines of a fork.
In any case, lay a clean kitchen towel over the crust while you prepare the filling.
6. To make the filling, beat 1½ cups (340 g) sugar and 6 tablespoons (85 g) goat butter in a large bowl with an electric mixer at medium speed until creamy, smooth, and pale yellow, no obvious graininess of the sugar left, about 4 minutes.
7. Beat in the eggs one at a time, making sure each is well incorporated before adding the next. Beat in the goat yogurt until smooth, then beat in the flour until fully dissolved, about 1 minute. Scrape down the inside of the bowl and beat in 2 tablespoons lemon juice, the lemon zest, and vanilla.
8. Pour this mixture into the prepared crust. (You removed the towel first, right?) Then bake until the filling is puffed and golden brown, 50 to 55 minutes. The center should be set when jiggled, not firm—still movable for sure, but not liquid, either. Transfer the pie to a wire rack and cool to room temperature, about 2 hours, before slicing and serving.
MORE TO KNOW
Again, because of protein and fat molecule differentials, some goat yogurts are thicker than others, most pretty thin. For this recipe, you want 1 cup (250 ml) of goat yogurt that’s about the consistency of cultured buttermilk. If yours is very thick, thin it out with some goat milk until it’s the right consistency. If yours is very thin, strain it a bit (see this page)—but don’t let the yogurt get too thick.
LESS TO DO
You can make the crust in a food processor fitted with the chopping blade. Pulse the dry ingredients a couple of times, then add both fats and pulse until the mixture resembles coarse sand. With the blade running, pour in the water and lemon juice until a soft dough forms, adding a little more water if the thing won’t cohere. Scrape it out and continue with the recipe from step 4.
