Feast of the Goat

Easter came and went this year in a sad fashion. It came only a few weeks after my dad’s passing. This alone was enough to bear. But it was also his favorite holiday for a number of reasons. He liked it because on Palm Sunday, he’d collect the palms and make crucifixes out of them to place in our houses and in the car. He especially liked Easter because it was a chance to have some food he normally wouldn’t have during the year.

His preference was goat. In recent years, I tried to make lamb which was more symbolic to me. But goat was always his first choice as that’s what was traditional in Italy. The last few years I did make goat to please him and also because I like it too.

Growing up though, I didn’t have such fond feelings for the horned creature. For years on Good Friday my dad would make a trip to the Bronx and get goat meat he ordered at his favorite butcher. Within the days before Easter, I’d open the fridge to find the skull of a goat staring at me while it was soaking in water. Without fail, I’d scream and close the fridge door as if my life depended on it. Year after year this would happen.

My dad was raised in Italy during World War 2 and you ate every single part of an animal that was slaughtered. His favorite part of the goat was the brain. So I would have to bear this hideous vision every year. After seeing the goat head in the fridge, I’d have to beg my mom or my siblings to get stuff out of the fridge for me until Easter morning.

Despite this gross object in my sight, I’d eat the meat for Easter lunch/dinner. I could separate the two somehow. My sister, on the other hand, couldn’t bear to eat the meat.

This year I decided to go to my dad’s butcher where my mom and I bought his beloved goat meat. It felt right to honor him in this small way. The butcher chopped up a half portion goat for us and we took the meat, paid and left. When we got home, my husband put the meat in the fridge.

Easter Sunday, I took the meat out of the fridge and opened the package. Of course there was a head in the package. Instead of scaring me as it has done so many other years in my life, all I could do was cry. I would have done anything to have my dad there at the table enjoying his goat head.

It is these little things that make it difficult to move on. Despite all my efforts, these details rear their heads (pun intended) and remind me how much I miss my dad.