Tuesday, January 25 2011

First Degree Burns

That's noo a haggis--'tis a fur-covered bagpipe!

It's Robbie Burns day! In honour of the great Scottish poet I am making haggis tonight, served with neeps and tatties and a wee dram o' the finest.

Confused? Thank your lucky stars. Robbie Burns was Scotland's finest poet, expressing the soul and aspirations of a people with a broad sense of history, and a broad definition of 'oat cuisine'. To his everlasting credit, Burns' most notable contribution to the canon was his Address to a Haggis.

Haggis . . . well, supposedly this blog is for people who enjoy wine and other adult lifestyle choices, so send the kiddies out of the room. Haggis is essentially a kind of sausage, which is kind of like saying a thermonuclear weapon is a sort of a 'bang'. It's made from the leftovers of sheep butchery, liver and lights (lungs, kidneys, heart, anything hoity-toity folks won't eat) stuffed into its own stomach, seasoned with a bit of herbs and salt, stretched with oats and barely and boiled in a broth until it looks like a stewed bowling ball.

Positively bursting with flavour

Mmm! Doesn't that sound good? Well, maybe not to a non-Scots, but trust me: the closer to the inside, the tastier an animal gets. Keep your effete little filet mignon: a real Scotsman wants real grub! Neeps and tatties are boiled turnips and potatoes, good for filling bellies (or for hiding errant haggis bits underneath). And, of course, there's the Scotch.

I wouldn't describe myself as a Scotch snob: my liver's house contains many mansions. I enjoy blended whiskies as well as single malts, but by far my favorites are the Islay's and Speysides. Tonight I have something very special to go with my dinner: the very last drops of my Lagavulin Vintage 1980.

Sniff. Isn't she beautiful?

There's perhaps two ounces left of a bottle I got for Christmas almost ten years ago. There is literally nothing coherent I can say about this whisky. If you don't like Scotch, it's the worst-thing in the world, no holds barred. If you do . . . then if youve been very, very good, when you die, you'll wake up in a place where this comes out of the water fountains.

And trust me, nothing makes haggis more palatable than a few shots of the good stuff.

After the pipe music and the presentation of the haggis there will of course be the reading of the address. In case you've got a sheep's stomach on the boil, I'll share it with you here:

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, 
they stretch an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve,
Are bent lyke drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
"Bethankit!" 'hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him ower his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a haggis!

Happy Burns Day.

Posted by McTim AT 2:20PM

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