In the stillness of early morning, as I poured hot water over coffee grounds, my eyes landed on the drawing that hangs on my kitchen wall—a modern, slightly abstract rendering of a goat by Hoboken artist, Robert Clarence. I bought it years ago at the Van Der Plas Gallery in Manhattan, a gift for my father. It wasn’t quite his style, more contemporary than he preferred, but it was a goat. And goats, to him, were sacred. This is a goat tale.
My father grew up in Greece during World War II, stranded there with his mother and sister after what was meant to be a short visit turned into more than a decade. They had traveled from New York just before the war broke out and found themselves unable to return.
Those were lean, desperate years. My father often recounted stories of survival—how he and his family lived for weeks at a time on little more than figs and goat milk. Figs, at least, were abundant. And the goats, hardy and generous, provided the milk that kept them going.
After he died, I kept the goat drawing as a quiet tribute to his resilience. But this morning, as I took in its familiar lines, I felt a deeper connection take root.
The story wasn’t just his anymore—it was becoming mine.
For the past year, I’ve been navigating a return to health, following months of unexplained symptoms—wheezing, vertigo, migraines, and relentless fatigue. Through trial and error, I’m slowly finding relief in a tailored version of the anti-inflammatory diet: no meat, no cow dairy, no processed foods. The transition was rough. Finding nourishing protein sources I could tolerate felt like its own kind of war rationing.
Goat cheese—especially feta—had long been a comfort food, but because of the histamine load from aging, even that had to be limited. What remained? Goat yogurt. And that simple food has become my lifeline. Rich in protein and probiotics, it’s supporting my gut, my strength, my healing.
Later in the day, as if in cosmic affirmation, a friend handed me a large bag of loquats. Not figs, but something close. Growing up in Central Florida, we had a loquat tree in the backyard. I remember plucking the golden fruits straight from the branch and the way their tart sweetness tasted in my mouth.
Figs and goat milk. Loquats and goat yogurt.
These pairings—one ancestral, one contemporary—tell a story of survival and sustenance. A story of what carries us when life strips things bare. In both past and present, the goats and the fruit bear witness.
And so each morning, as I stand in my kitchen and glance at the goat on the wall, I’m reminded: what sustained him now sustains me. Healing sometimes arrives in the most familiar forms.
