Photos by Michael Piazza / Styled by Catrine Kelty

I can clearly recall the first time I made the connection. The connection between the goats raised by my paternal grandfather, “Maas” Winston Francis, and the family feasts I loved. “Papa,” as he was affectionately known, would invite us, the grandchildren from “town” (Kingston, Jamaica), to stay with him in the country during our summer holidays. We would help him attend to his goats and when we returned for Christmas break, they were being prepared for slaughter.

Once slaughtered, the goats were cleaned by the women down by the coffee walk, a tract of land behind my grandparents’ outdoor kitchen. Every part of the animal was carefully attended to, including heads and offal, which were roasted to remove hair and intestinal debris. This was a yearly ritual at my grandparents’ home in Clarendon and one repeated at many homes across rural Jamaica for weddings, funerals, housewarmings or dancehalls.

The women were led by my grandmother, “Sister Daphne,” and her neighbors and my mother. The men slaughtered; the women cleaned the meat and cooked. The children played. We each performed our role in this orchestra of tradition. And when all duties were done, we feasted on rice, goat, chicken, ground provision (Caribbean root vegetables), veggies and soft drinks. As children, we were only given a tups (small portion) of goat, out of fear we’d waste the precious meat. And besides, the risk of soiling our good clothes with curry was extremely high.

The goat kid’s last cry before slaughter, the scent of burnt goat hair, the gamey smell of the flesh and then, later on, the smell of a turmeric-heavy, Indo-Anglo-influenced curry powder—a blend of pimento, thyme, ginger, scallions, garlic, Scotch bonnet and onions—being rubbed onto the meat has remained with me some 30+ years. Any time, anywhere I smell goat being cooked, I am transported to that place, to that time. Transported to family, to joy, to connection to the land, to my first fascination with food, stories and community.

Goat for me is the taste of home and my connection to the rest of the world when I travel outside the United States. Goats were my first introduction to sustainability; they are amazingly efficient at clearing invasive plant species. The entire animal, nose to tail, can be fashioned into food—milk, cheese, meat—and even clothing. Yes, cashmere comes from goats. Fancy, right? Goats were the first creatures to be tamed by humans over 9,000 years ago, yet their bovid cousins, sheep and cattle, are more often consumed as food here in my new New England home. Goat meat is my immigrant story on a plate—it’s found here, but still sometimes considered foreign. Perhaps accepted, but not always embraced, still finding its way—struggling with assimilation, practicing coexistence, relegated to certain parts of town per redlining and urban renewal policies.

When curry done.
Den a wha goat meat a go do?
Curry cook the meat,
Curry cook the bone,
Curry cook the goat skin too.

–Jamaican folk song

To be honest, I rarely make goat dishes at home, although I always have a parcel or two in my freezer for special occasions. I enjoy cooking it on festive occasions; it’s too important a treat for me to eat on a mundane Monday after work. I enjoy the thrill of the search for goat meat meals, and the conversations that ensue after finding my kin. I call them “goat people”—usually West African, Greek, Caribbean or Southeast Asian immigrants, or first-generation Americans or the well-traveled epicure.

The habit of seeking out goat meat started with my first job after college, in a rural village some four to five hours by car from Kingston, where I lived. On the weekends, my supervisor Miss Bedasse (a Jamaican of Indian descent) and I would time our drives to and from work, based on our favorite curry goat vendors’ schedules. Until recently, for many Jamaicans, the only treatment for goat meat was curry. There is a tradition of allegiance to curried goat; it is common for folks across the island to associate curry with the particular day of the week when it’s served by a particular favored restaurant or street corner vendor. Maybe that’s due to the old wives’ tale that an improperly prepared curry (not “burned enough” prior to cooking, to properly release the flavor of the spices) can wreak havoc on one’s stomach. It was common knowledge to avoid anyone with a poor reputation and, of course, most importantly, to avoid any establishment rumored to serve up the cheaper version of imported sheep passed off as goat. A goat connoisseur knows the distinct difference between the smell of a kid and a ram and easily sniffs out mutton or sheep. Goat meat reigns supreme, especially among rural dwellers. And if you knew it prior to slaughter (yes, the goat) and its owner, then that goat ascends to even higher status and value on the menu.

I carried this tradition, inadvertently, to Metro Boston where I have special goat places. If I want goat on a Sunday, I stop into an Indian buffet in Jamaica Plain, Quincy or Somerville. If my appetite calls for goat on a Friday night, I know the restaurant where I can get my hands on a plate of takeout grilled halal goat with biryani rice and a delicious yogurt sauce: Ashur, located behind the Islamic Society of Boston in Roxbury Crossing. If I order a samosa while I wait, the man behind the counter often adds a cup of piping hot Somali chai at no cost. Any other day of the week, I stop into a Jamaican restaurant in any of Boston’s neighborhoods—Flames is my go-to spot, with its five locations, but Only One is a close runner up. At either, I can reliably get curried goat done in the classic Jamaican style—saucy and spicy—and my nostalgia and belly will be satiated. But if I’m downtown at my office in Boston’s Theater District, then chances are I’m in a goat desert. I remain optimistic that perhaps I’ve missed a downtown goat spot, or that as Boston evolves as a city, a goat roti will one day be as easy to find downtown as ravioli.

Each recipe below is an attempt to re-create one of my most beloved goat meat dishes—they are by no means completely traditional or classic, but I’ll run the risk of getting rolled eyes and scoffs from the elders, the purists and keepers of tradition: This is my interpretation. As a bicultural, older millennial culinary creative, this is my translation of that goat feast from my grandparents decades ago, and a culmination of the various goat dishes I’ve enjoyed with friends and family across the world and here in Massachusetts.

Editor’s note: Goat meat can be hard to find, so feel free to substitute lamb in these recipes. Halal markets have goat meat regularly, and most is locally raised. For a list of farms, butchers and grocers carrying local goat meat—both ground and/or shanks—in Greater Boston and Central Massachusetts, click here>>

This story appeared in the Spring 2022 issue.