The first two years in Kenya we lived in a small apartment with a tropical paradise jungle garden in the back. When you're a child many of the cultural divides don't matter and, in our little world, we had formed a rag-tag playgroup. There were the three white American kids, off to school each morning, the little East Indian girl named Jennypet (named after her parents Jenny and Peter), a princess in her parents' eyes, and the gardner's son, Otiano, who helped with work around the apartment building. We were friends but, in our naive and innocent American minds, we didn't register the vast differences in our lives.
One day Jennypet excitedly invited us to see her new pet goat, tethered in her portion of the shared backyard. A goat! As a pet! We spent the week fawning over our new friend. Then, an invitation came to celebrate Jennypet's birthday. A grand party with guests, presents and, oh yeah, food. Specifically, a goat feast.
The pet goat was also the guest of honor in the birthday curry. Our first, but certainly not the last, introduction to the practical reality of where food actually comes from.
Goat: not my favorite meat.