Cat on hot tin plate

Wednesday, 11 August 2010

What was on the menu for this mid-week repast? Why, none other than Miss Kitty. Yes, indeed. And I must say: She was delicious. Who knew?

I was walking home from school one evening when I found most of my home stay family sitting on the side of the road outside my Tonton’s (home stay uncle’s) hair salon by the house. They liked to kick back there in the evenings and salute the passers-by. I joined them and let one of my cousins start to tress (cornrow) my hair. As it got darker, we retreated inside. Then there was great commotion in the yard, and my cousin left my hair, half tressed, to see what was going on. She shouted for me to join everyone outside. Tonton and my other uncle were going to kill a cat. I couldn’t leave our training village without trying cat, they said. I followed the kids out of the compound where I saw that my uncles had cornered a cat in a bush and were waiting, with burlap sack in hand, to capture it.

I’m not sure what happened next, but everyone decided then that I shouldn’t witness the killing. So my cousin took me back to sit at her feet while she finished my hair. Afterward, we went out back to see the cat Tonton had dragged in. There she was: a little white, spotted kitty with vacant eyes lying on the cement on the edge of the outdoor kitchen. Tonton’s face shone in the firelight as he put a pot of water on to boil for the de-furring.

Stray cats were abundant in my training village. Most mornings, I’d see at least two or three out my window, scampering across the tin roof of the back building in our family compound. I suspected this kitty to be one of those. “C’est un chat sauvage?” I asked. Oui, said one of my aunt’s. It’s a wild cat. What could I do but go back inside and do my evening chores? When I’d finished bleaching my drinking water for the next day, I went back outside to have my bucket bath. This time, the now furless cat was charring on a makeshift grill. As I stepped down the stairs, Tonton turned it, whole, to crisp the skin on the other side.

By the time I finished my bath, kitty was in a pot, boiling, in pieces, with fresh herbs in salted water. I admit I felt unsure about eating cat – stray cat – but what bothered me more was knowing that it was for tomorrow night’s dinner, not tonight’s. My family didn’t have a refrigerator. What were they going to do with this bush meat (if you will) during the 24 hours before we ate it? I’d been served plenty of meals that had sat out all night and all day before I ate them, but those meals weren’t wild cat. How would it keep overnight? Just fine, I learned.

The next night, I got a plate piled high with seasoned rice and piece of what I saw later was the best part of the cat: its meaty little haunch. My aunt had re-grilled the kitty, so I felt OK about it being relatively microbe free. And it had a wonderful flavor. I was surprised to see that domestic cat meat is white meat. It’s so cliché, but it really did taste like chicken – rich, dark-meat chicken with gamey overtones. I would have it again if someone served it to me. Eating cat. That’s tres bien integre, as we volunteers like to say. I’m very well integrated into Cameroonian culture – at least on the gastronomical front.