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? -- Robert Burns
In case you forgot, January 25 marks Robbie Burns day -- the day where we delight in Scottish poetry by the master, and indulge in the wonders of haggis.
These days, I'm not so sure why the meal is considered so revolting. It might be encased in intestines, but it's a meal that includes forgotten meats like "sheep's pluck," and a saute of tasty additions like onions, spices, and stock. A food that uses all of the animal, let's your drink to the tune of bagpipes, and allows you to recite rowdy poetry? What could be better?
Granted, I'm a little biased. I should be showing you a picture of the tasty haggis. Instead, I'm sharing a picture of John Morton, one of the men who delights in the Address to a Haggis miles from home, and happens to be my great uncle. The above is from a flier he sent me back in 2002, and the letter attached described how much my grandmother would've loved the festivities -- a time to revel in the power of the food and the word.
These days, Robbie Burns is relegated to the world of Scottish poetry in a time long passed, but it's worthy to remember that this wasn't a man who was studied along with the greats. In the early twentieth century, Scottish school children were learning about Byron, Wordsworth, Yeats, and the like. But Burns ... was the poetic everyman.
We're talking about the poet who not only brought us the ode to a food we only eat once a year, but the pen that created Auld Lang Syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
So this Sunday, bite into your haggis and recite the ode, or just raise your Scottish brew and give a moment for good ol' Robbie Burns.
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