Cabrito Assado

In the mountains of Beira, Easter isn't Easter without cabrito. The young goats born in late winter reach the perfect size by spring, tender enough that the meat practically falls from the bone. This is what my grandmother's neighbors raised. This is what appeared on every table from Guarda to Viseu when the bells rang on Domingo de Páscoa.

I didn't grow up in Beira, but I've spent years documenting recipes from the grandmothers there. What strikes me every time is how simple this dish is. Garlic, rosemary, bay leaf, salt, wine. Maybe some potatoes to catch the drippings. That's it. No marinades with seventeen ingredients. No complicated techniques. Just good meat treated with respect.

The secret is the garlic paste pressed into cuts all over the meat. As it roasts, that garlic perfumes everything. The house fills with the smell hours before dinner. By the time you carve, everyone is already hungry.

Cabrito assado is a dish of place and season. The mountain pastures, the spring herbs, the young animals. You can make it anywhere, but when you do, you're bringing a piece of those granite hills to your table. A cozinha é memória. Even recipes from regions not our own become part of who we are when we cook them with intention.