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Find a patch of brush. Light it on fire. Catch all the mice as they race to escape the flames. Toss them into boiling water. Wait. Scoop their wet-soaked scraggly carcass out of the water pot. Jam a dozen between two sticks. Run out to the road. Wait for a passing minibus. Sell for 150-250 Kwacha (USD$1.00-1.75).
I’m told they taste nothing like chicken.
When Fluitt and I used to travel on business together, we sought out the reptilian, the amphibious, and various forms of aquatic vertebrates for dinner. We went for alligator in Texas, frog legs in France, what we could only semi-translate as “pot-of-fish” in a tiny, dark, Korean restaurant off the Champs-Elysee; and something that looked like a half-fish-half-Kimodo-dragon, perhaps more suited to an evolutionary exhibit than used as culinary enticement, that pulled us in off the street in a back alley walk up in Hong Kong.
And it’s not like we went searching for the weird or for the “authentic” (whatever that might mean in a global, post-everything, world). It’s just that we happened to run into that kind of food….a lot.
