The Secret Life of Cheese
Within moments of showing up at Giannetto’s farm, a scrubby stretch of pastures and vineyards a few miles outside the southern Sardinian town of Dolianova, the old man decides that we ought to slaughter a goat. I think momentarily about protesting that a whole beast is too much food for the five people on the farm that day. But I feel it would be rude to refuse the hospitality, as it is woven deeply into the shepherding culture of inland Sardinia. Plus, Giannetto may be graying and portly, but he’s still built like a brick wall. Even a friendly don’t-sweat-itslap on the back with his André the Giant hands would probably send me flying. So I just nod. Within minutes, Giannetto vanishes over a hillock, only to return swinging a baby goat upside-down by the legs; Sardinian tradition maintains that young animals have the most delicious flesh. The kid looks about nonchalantly and does not so much as bleat.
