Here in Scotland, it is the birthday of our national poet, Robert Burns. Resulting from his classic “Address to a Haggis” (a dish the man himself loved) the classic “Burns Supper” by which we celebrate him is a dish of “Haggis, Neeps and Tatties” which may require a little translation for an American audience.
The easy bits first. Neeps are turnips. In Scotland the usual turnip is the one we call a “swede” and you call a “rutabaga”. Tatties are potatoes. In the classic Burns supper they are both served “bashed” — ie mashed — seasoned and buttered.
Haggis is a classical example of “regional cuisine” being the local “poor man’s food.” It is a sausage-like item, the ingredients being “sheep’s pluck”, oats, spices, lamb and beef fat traditionally encased in the sheep’s stomach but these days often presented in a synthetic casing as are many modern sausages and steamed meat puddings. Any butcher will tell you that “pluck” is offal that is usually discarded. In a haggis it’s mostly the lungs.
It sounds pretty horrid, but it’s actually delicious.
Sadly, it is almost impossible to find a decent haggis in the USA. The “real thing” is not permitted to be imported by the FDA. Some American butchers have created pretty good facsimiles though, if there is a local “ethnically Scottish” community to market it to.
I shall leave you with the verse from the estimable Mr Burns that is traditionally used to address the principal dish at a Burns supper when it is ceremonially piped to the high table.
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 slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie 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;
The 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 scunner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre 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 make 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
