Sheep Stuffed Sheep

If food-borne illness would have had its way, I might not have been able to deliver this blog.

January 25th is the birthday of Robert Burns, a Scottish poet that is a hero and revered figure in that country. The typical celebration of his birthday is a Burns Night, a simple affair involving poetry and a meal consisting of haggis and its sidekicks: tatties, neeps, and a dram. In other parts of the world, that simply means mashed potatoes, mashed turnips, and a shot or ten of Scottish whiskey. Oh, and haggis is, according to Wikipedia "[a] sheep's 'pluck' (heart, liver and lungs), minced with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt, mixed with stock, and traditionally boiled in the animal's stomach for approximately three hours." Yummy.

This past January 25th, I realized it was Burn's birthday. I frantically called the wife at work and told her she had to stop at the Super Shell Station. Yep, the super-Shell has that, too. Always a sport, she came home with not one, but two haggi (plural for haggis, I think.) One was a normal haggis, the other was one of these new fangled vegetarian haggi -- a concept which only barely makes sense.

Unfortunately, one thing led to another and we never got a chance to eat the haggis. Trips to Denmark and a later revelation by the wife that she wouldn't eat the haggis with me led to one delay after another. Until this past Friday, March 13. Friday, the 13th. Over 30 days past its expiration date, and the time was finally right for haggis-eating.



The haggis was much better than I expected. I've had it once before, and this one was the better of the two experiences. It was lighter (it's all relative when you are eating organs blended with fat), more flavorful -- I would even say just a bit spicy. Worth doing again at the very least! Cheers!








Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
Aboon them a' yet 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 was 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 like 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 make her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckles as wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;
His nieve a nit;
Thro' blody 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' hands will sned,
Like taps o' trissle.

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!
Robert Burns, Address to a Haggis, 1978