People, meet the Haggis. The Haggis is a traditional Scottish dish. It is an acquired taste, a bit like say parsnip & Jerusalem Artichoke soup with gorgonzola. Or oral sex.
On Monday night just gone by my husband and I with the help of a Scottish chap (called Scott) introduced a bunch of non-Scottish to the concept of the Burns Supper.
Pardon the puns but the Burn-ing questions of the evening were (in no particular order):
“Who was Robert Burns and why are we having a supper for him?” It has been said that the haggis is a timid mythical creaure that roams the Scottish Higlands. Robert Burns was born at or around the time of the first sighting of this strange and wonderful creature. According to Scottish legend, which has borne the test of time, the best way to capture a haggis alive is to:
(a) read it the poetry of Robert Burns; or
(b) play the bagpipes to it until it falls over in delight and waves its little legs in the air.
You then have a short window of opportunity in which to leap upon it, truss it up and chuck it into a pot of boiling water. Otherwise it goes off. Or bites you.
“Do you really eat Haggis?” Yes you do and we did. One or two people actually came back for seconds. James came back for thirds. It is particularly delicious when you pour a measure of neat malt whiskey over it beforehand. In fact, if you have a Burns Night without vast quantities of single (not blended) Scotch whisky neither the haggis nor your guests will be happy.
“How did you match your shoes to the Haggis?” I didn’t. I matched my shoes to my kilt which was predominantly red with a few green checks, as they usually are. The kilt label suggests that it is the Lili (Mac)Gaufrette tartan. Obviously to protect my anonymity, I won’t be divulging whether or not it is my clan tartan.
“Are you wearing your kilt according to customary Scottish military tradition?” That was for me to know and you to find out. If you didn’t get the chance to do so you will just have to come along next year.