Burn's Night

People get desperate in the dead of winter. January, "high" of 20 degrees, broken trees everywhere from the ice storm,  is pretty dead winter. We decided to have a spontaneous dinner on Saturday so googled what day January 25 was internationally.  It was a GREAT day to celebrate:   Burn's Night in Scotland  honors their most famous poet: Robert Burns. We made it the theme for the dinner party.  Judd made haggis. That was pretty desperate.  We found that US FDA does not allow butchers to sell much of the required meat, so Judd made do with a lamb, beef liver, suet. He couldn't stuff it in a mammal stomach, so he made little cheesecloth sacks. Lots of oatmeal helped soak up the suet (and I will roll the rest of the suet in birdseed and hang outside for the birds.) Thank goodness for the lighter fare: roasted vegetables, ahi tuna steaks, clementine cake (stayed tuned for the Secret Life of Walter Mitty cake reference in another blog.)

 I made a quick kilt from a Goodwill-purchased skirt. It took no arm twisting at all for Judd to wear a kilt.  (he says they're all the rage on the Appalachian Trail.) The guests were very good sports. We read a few poems aloud in varying degrees of fake Scottish accent.   One friend commented that our relatives used to entertain each other  by reciting poems for each other. I only have ONE friend who still regales me by reciting poems.  (A shout out to Dr. Bindu!)  We did end the evening honoring Burns by singing  Auld Lang Syne.

Next Dead-of-Winter holiday (besides Valentine's Day):  Open That Bottle Night (the last Saturday in February!)

look up:

Ode to a Mouse
Ode to a Louse
Ode to a Mountain Daisy

Address to a Haggis

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 worthy 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

Address to a Haggis Translation

Fair and full is your honest, jolly face,
Great chieftain of the sausage race!
Above them all you take your place,
Stomach, tripe, or intestines:
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm.

The groaning trencher there you fill,
Your buttocks like a distant hill,
Your pin would help to mend a mill
In time of need,
While through your pores the dews distill
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour wipe,
And cut you up with ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like any ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm steaming, rich!

Then spoon for spoon, the stretch and strive:
Devil take the hindmost, on they drive,
Till all their well swollen bellies by-and-by
Are bent like drums;
Then old head of the table, most like to burst,
'The grace!' hums.

Is there that over his French ragout,
Or olio that would sicken a sow,
Or fricassee would make her vomit
With perfect disgust,
Looks down with sneering, scornful view
On such a dinner?

Poor devil! see him over his trash,
As feeble as a withered rush,
His thin legs a good whip-lash,
His fist a nut;
Through bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit.

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his ample fist a blade,
He'll make it whistle;
And legs, and arms, and heads will cut off
Like the heads of thistles.

You powers, who make mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill of fare,
Old Scotland wants no watery stuff,
That splashes in small wooden dishes;
But if you wish her grateful prayer,
Give her [Scotland] a Haggis!