A couple weeks ago I took a trip out to Bradford, PA. A newfound friend, Nick, had invited me out to join him for a Burns Supper! Never had I heard of such a thing and I was instantly intrigued.
The sun made a nice appearance for the end of January so first off we had a hike. It might have been only 5 degrees, but once you got going up those steep inclines it warmed you enough to keep on. The pup that came along wasn’t so fortunate. Without booties her little pads were frozen after a time and we decided to head back.
Having worked up a big appetite, I decided to inquire what was on the menu. Haggis. This was the answer I got. What the hell is haggis?? Well, haggis, I learned that fine evening, is the stomach of a sheep stuffed with the ground up innards of the sheep…mixed with spices and herbs of course. It sounds repulsive, doesn’t it? Well, being a meat eater, I’m sure I’ve had worse so I said bring. it. on. Now I know why those Scot’s start out with the whisky and don’t stop, all the way until dessert! I kid, the dinner was delicious and while I tried to stick to beer, I couldn’t help but pour myself a couple thimbles full of Scotch Whiskey. I’m told the kind pictured above was the best and luckily it was on our end of the table!
The dinner started and soon bagpipes played, stories were told, and we even sang along to some traditional songs. Poems of Robert Burns, for whom the supper is named, were also reenacted and spoken aloud for everyone’s enjoyment.
Address To A Haggis
ReplyDeleteFair 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 of 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 ye 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 strech 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 mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
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' bluidy 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!
Robert Burns