Is it just me, or does goat yoga make you hungry for, well, you know…
Saturday morning, somewhere between my second carafe of coffee and contemplating whether Keanu Reeves as John Wick could up the ante of his impressive baddie body count using a blow gun and nunchucks combination, I got a text. Not just any text, mind you.
A text from the stunning, brainy-as-hell microbiologist I used to date back in my NYC days. A woman so sharp she could diagnose your ego with a microscope and then cure it with a smirk. Anyway, she informs me that she and her girlfriends are doing goat yoga today.
Yep. You read that right.
Goat. Yoga.
Now, I’m no stranger to the wonderfully whimsical, wacky world of well-intentioned wellness. Hell, I’ve dated enough yogis to know my chakras from my chaturangas. But this? Never this.
This was new even for me.
I hit her back with: “You do realize goats are delectable, yes? Are these goats the same goats that star in Caribbean stews and South Asian curries? Because if so, I’ll bring the Dutch oven and some garlic.”
She hit me back with three laughing emojis and a heart.
That, my friends, is how you know you’re still in there, like that there.
But I digress…
Let’s talk about this bizarre marriage of beast and balance, shall we?
FYI, goat yoga is apparently all the rage. It’s the latest fad where you do downward dog while an adorable baby goat and other assorted goats perch atop your back like some bleating, hoofed senseis on a mission to show you that, with all due apologies to Din Djarin, aka known as The Mandalorian, aka known as Mando — this is the way.
It’s like nature’s version of hot stone therapy, but with a lot more nibbling and a lot less spa music.
Not for nothing, I can actually see the appeal. There’s something undeniably Zen about surrendering to the present moment, even if that moment involves a farm animal trying to chew your ponytail. These goats, with their mischievous eyes and cloven feet, remind us not to take life—or Lululemon-clad egos—too seriously.
But as I sit here, musing with a cigar in hand and Ennio Morricone (IYKYK) playing in the background, I must also salute another noble goat tradition: cuisine.
One that is vastly more finger lickin’ good than that of one Colonel Harland Sanders, thank you very much.
To the chefs of Kingston who curry goat with fire and finesse. To the butchers in Marrakesh whose spiced tagines have been making mouths water for centuries. To the pitmasters in Nigeria, the street vendors in Kerala, the grandmothers in the Greek isles—you are the real goat whisperers.
Because while yoga may soothe the soul, a well-seasoned goat shank does wonders for the spirit.
It’s primal. It’s communal. It’s a sacred ritual wrapped in bone and broth.
And, yeah, might I add—it’s damn delicious.
So here’s to goat yoga, a fine distraction. But never forget: when the mats are rolled up and the selfies are posted, somewhere out there a slow-roasting shoulder of goat is feeding a family, fueling a celebration, or making a man like yours truly, feel damn near divine.
Namaste, and pass the hot sauce.
