You've "goat" to be kidding me!

It has become a tradition. A great Fall gathering of sorts. First comes the annual negotiating our way onto the veranda. "You MUST order from the meal menu," we are told. Four educators then try to show, mathematically, the economic wisdom of allowing our party dessert and drink privileges. Everyone is grumpy by this point. The disgruntled hostess begrudgingly permits us to sit in one of the five or more tables on the vacant veranda. To appease her, we ask about the soup selection. Apparently, poetic culinary recitations are not included in her hostessing duties. 

The waitress approaches us warily. Apparently, our reputation had preceded us. In an attempt of reparation, Sandy ordered a cup of soup. Hoping to stir the pot a bit more, I requested four spoons. Our food server laughed. Dang. A sense of humor. 

Warm beverages on the way, we settled in, enjoying our surroundings. "There's a beam of sunlight on that table over there," a member of our group observed. "Oh no," I thought to myself, "here we go." So yeah...we played a rousing game of Musical Tables...eventually finding our way back to our original spot. Every. Time. Every. Darn. Time.

Following our first course of delicious desserts...and soup...and a wrap (because, belligerence aside, we're rule-followers, at heart), discourse could begin. We realized that three of the four educators at the table were sporting superhero t-shirts...what seems perfectly normal at school during Spirit Week does not translate equally well at a place that charges nine dollars for a specialty coffee. We discussed my re-scheduling of a bi-plane ride as I had failed to lose the required forty pounds to stuff myself into the seat. "You still have plenty of time," my friend Pat said encouragingly, and then, horrified, hurriedly clarified, "Not that I think you're fat." I nodded while taking another large bite of my harvest apple cheesecake with caramel sauce. 

Worried that she wouldn't be portrayed well, blog-wise, Pat changed the subject. "Amy, have I ever told you about my goat, Blessed?" I settled in happily. I love a good goat story. I didn't know, at this juncture, that goat horror stories existed. 

Pregnant with twins, Blessed's mother had struggled in labor. When Pat arrived in the morning, she was sad to learn that Blessed had not made it. Observing the cold newborn on the floor, Pat reckoned back to some reading from an old manual on how to resuscitate a goat in such situations. "His eyes weren't empty," my friend told me somberly, going on to describe how she plucked Blessed up and, like a lariat, swung him about. This cannot be real, I thought to myself, nodding as Pat mimic-ed her actions from that fateful day. Mind you, she's dressed in a superhero shirt, seated on the veranda of one of the classiest restaurants in the county, simulating the medicinal swinging of a dead goat while I'm finishing up my harvest apple cheesecake with caramel sauce. She's insane, I thought but, upon later Google research, had to eat my words. The procedure warns practitioners to stand well away from walls and other possible hard objects...like pinatas. 

Surprised that this method didn't work ("Really?"  I said to myself, wondering about the alcohol ratio of my warm beverage), Pat still refused to give up...ready to wrestle her baby goat from the grim clutches of Death Himself. When warm water immersion also failed (My friend Sandy pushed away her soup at this point), Pat conceded, leaving her little goat at the base of her Virgin Mary statue. Hours later, in what can only be described as divine intervention, Blessed was resurrected...by the Father, Son or Holy Goat...we may never know. It was an un-bleat-able story. 

I was exhausted. We had experienced a lot of highs and lows over the course of this shared meal. We stood up, Pat pushing in her chair with her strong, goat-swinging arms. "I don't know why we don't do this more often," someone said as we walked back to our vehicles.

I do.