Haggis

A Martha’s Vineyard Night of Single Malt Whiskey, Robert Burns’ Poetry, Fine
Cigars, and an Oozing Mass of Sheep Entrails Called Haggis.



Anybody can learn how the Scots developed Scotch whiskey.  I now know why
they invented it.  This I learned while vacationing with friends on Martha’s
Vineyard.
It all began when we visited the Scottish Bakery on that lovely isle that
must have so reminded its Scottish settlers of their homeland.  Upon
entering the charming little cottage bakeshop, my friend Sherwood, his funny
bone honed on classic ‘70’s Saturday Night Live, couldn’t resist asking the
question of the matronly woman behind the counter:
Got any haggis?
For those of you unfamiliar with Dan Aykroyd’s Scottish restaurant routine,
haggis is the Scottish national dish.  The culinary equivalent of the
bagpipe.  A bloated sheep gut, stuffed with the innards of said beast.
Haggis. Living proof that the Scots make better chieftains than chefs. And a
very a good reason why there are no Scottish restaurants dotting America’s
highways.  (No, MacDonalds’s does NOT qualify as a Scottish restaurant.)
There was nothing in that lovely bakeshop filled with butter-engorged
pastries and cookies that could have prepared us for that gray-haired
shopkeeper’s answer.  Certainly the scone-laden glass cases before us only
served to bolster my friend’s smug expectation of a resounding “nay” to his
haggis question.  But the woman paused, then looked up at him, beaming with
Scottish pride. “Oh yes, we just got in some freshly-made haggis this
morning!  Would you like a large or a small?”

My friend hesitated for a moment, first looking at me, then at his younger
brother.
At this point, there was no backing down.
“Uh, there are a lot of us. I think we probably need a large,” his brother
volunteered.
And so the woman scurried into the back room, emerging moments later with a
basketball-sized lump the grim color of uncooked dough.  Sutures snaked
around it, giving it a Frankenstein-like appearance.  Was that blood I
detected oozing from the stitches?  Mmmmmm.  Haggis.
On the ride back to our beach house in Tisbury, I mentioned that, of
course, the haggis would make a great joke.  We would carry it home,
frighten the bejesus out of the womenfolk and the wee ones, then deposit
this gigantic Scottish meatball where it would do no harm.  In the trash.
OK, people are starving all over the world.  But surely even they would
readily reject this nightmare dish from the Scottish highlands.  Give us the
Yankee bean soup, but please, no haggis!
My friend seemed hurt by my attitude.  He indicated that not only was he
fully prepared to cook the thing, he also planned to partake of it.  In
fact, he officially proclaimed Thursday night would be “Scottish Night” at
our previously idyllic summer compound.  After all, hadn’t we done a Mexican
Night.  An Italian Night.  Why not a Scottish Night?
Fine.  But I’ll have no part of it laddie, I swore.
However, as the day of the proposed haggis feast approached, I found myself
slipping into the spirit of the adventure.  What the hell, we’re on
vacation.  Live dangerously.  How bad can it be?  You were afraid to try
sushi, and look how much you like that.  You eat Italian sausage.  For god’s
sake, you eat hot dogs!!  Surely they’ve got worse stuff in them than
haggis.
These rationalizations were working well. Then I opened the refrigerator
and saw the haggis lying there under the harsh refrigerator light.  Tiny
beads of condensation had formed on it, due to the high humidity and nonstop
door opening by the kids.  My background in food photography taught me that
condensation can make food look fresh and appetizing.  This was not the case
with the haggis.  The droplets made it look...slimy.  No doubt about it, the
haggis was sweating.  I closed the refrigerator door quickly.
Can’t you put that thing someplace else, I asked my friend.  Like in the
freezer. Or at least cover it with tin foil. He looked at me incredulously.
Why would I freeze it now?  We’re going to eat it tomorrow.  Besides, it has
to properly congeal.
Enough is enough.  This had been  a perfectly wonderful vacation.  Now
thoughts of the impending haggis were beginning to invade my day.  Well, I
simply won’t be part of this, I reaffirmed.  You can eat haggis to your
heart, liver and kidneys’ content.  I for one will keep my contribution to
Scottish Night on a much more civilized level -- with a single malt Scotch,
some good cigars, and a little Robbie Burns poetry.
The morning of our Scottish Night feast the men all began to talk like
groundskeeper Willie, “Excuse me, lassie, but co’ ya please pass the Froot
Loops?  The wee one wants mair.”  “Wud ya lak me to go to the store now,
bonnie belle, ‘cause we ha’ run out of malk.”’
Understandably, our wives soon forced us to leave the house. We then went
out in search of the Scotch and cigars.  At the liquor store we were faced
with so many choices you would begin to wonder if the Scots spent all their
waking hours making Scotch and not much else.  No wonder there are no
Scottish cars.  No Scottish jeans.  No Scottish computers.  They’re just too
damn busy making Scotch.  Now, do we want a ten year old single malt, or a
twelve year old blend.  Let’s see.  Whoa!  Look at the price on that one.
Finally we made the only intelligent choice.  We bought The Glenlivet,
because anything that says “The” must be pretty darn good.
The cigar department was no less confusing.  So we just made our decision
based on price.  We bought the most expensive cigars in the store.  After
all...this is Scottish Night!
As we sat down to dinner that night, one of the older children asked the
impertinent question.  What is a haggis?  This question sent us scurrying to
Wikipedia, which said:
“Haggis, from the Scottish word hag, meaning to chop.  A Scottish dish,
commonly made of the heart, lungs and liver of a sheep, minced with suet,
onions, oatmeal, salt and pepper.  (Salt and pepper, there’s something in
there I can actually eat!) and boiled in a bag-like object - usually the
stomach of the sheep.”
Of course.  What else would you put heart, lungs and liver into but a nice,
juicy gut?  You’re not going to stick something that good into an ordinary
pie crust.  No, that’s gotta go right into the old sheep belly.  I poured
myself a stiff dram of The Glenlivet.
Next came the Robby Burns poem we found at the Vineyard Haven Library.  Can
you believe the luck: it was titled “Address to a Haggis”  We took turns
reading stanzas in our best Highland accents.  Here it is in its entirety.

“ADDRESS TO A HAGGIS”
by Robert Burns
(with humble annotations by me)


“Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,         (I assume sonsie means slimy)
Great chieftain o’ the puddin-race.        (entrails are not pudding!)
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe or thairm.                           (I assume he’s favorably
comparing
                                                              it to other
delicacies like tripe)
Weel are ye wordy of a grace                 (Praying before eating haggis
makes As lang’s my arm.     sense.)


The groaning trencher there ye fill           (Must have been one big
haggis)
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill             (how its sewn up?
In time o’ need.
While thro’ your pores the dews distil       (That ooze I was talking about)
Like amber bead.


His knife see rustic Labour dight,                 (They’re gonna cut it!)
An’ cut ye up wi’ ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,                        (Yum!)
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!
(Double Yum!)

Then, horn for horn, they stretch and strive                  (Eager diners)
Devil tak the hindmost, on they drive
Till a’ their well-swall’d kytes belyve                          (Piggies!)
Are bent like drums.
Than auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
“Bethankit!”

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow                                         (They’re
making fun of Or fricasse wad mak her spew French food.  Yeah, right!
We’ perfect sconner,
Looks down wi’sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! I see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash,                                    (French
food makes
His spindle shanka gui whip-lash                                   you
weak!)
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis fed,                                  (But
haggis is the...
The trembling earth resounds his tread,                       breakfast of
champs.)
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He’ll make it whissle;
An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ head will sned    (Don’t mess with  Like taps o’
thrissle. anybody who eats it.)


Ye Pow’rs, wha make mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o’ fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae stinking ware,                (We don’t want any of
the That jaups in luggies;                                             wussy
stuff - Lord, give us But if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,
this day our daily haggis!)
Gie her a Haggis!


I poured myself a double single malt.
Finally the time was at hand.  The haggis was done, as best we could
figure.  We had followed the cooking directions perfectly.  At last we
pulled the beastly ball from the oven.  Its skin had turned from a sickly
dough color to a golden brown.  Even the sutures looked more benign in this
darker shade, looking more like shoelaces.  Nonetheless, the definition
still lay in the pit of my stomach.
I was selected to do the honors, to hack open this Scottish Piñata of
dyspepsia.  I held a sharp knife poised above it.  As I slashed, I turned my
head away, expecting a sheep aorta to spring from the gash like some bizarre
ovine jack-in-the-box.
Nothing erupted.  No gruesome gelatinous mass.  Instead, a very tame
mixture looking much like ground beef came forth.  Of course we all knew it
wasn’t ground beef.  Suddenly it hit me.   Haggis is why the Scots invented
Scotch whiskey.  Strong drink is the only way they could get up the nerve to
eat something like this  Later I would also learn why the Scots invented
kilts: after eating  haggis you don’t want clothing to slow you from
connecting with the nearest commode.
I bolstered up my courage, all eyes in the room on me.  I took a bite.
Hey, not bad.  It has a nice flavor.  It tastes like...chicken. Just
kidding.  It tastes like sausage.  Except for the dull crunch of the
oatmeal.  (Was it really the oatmeal that made the crunch?)  I could only
hope so.
And so, the haggis was eaten on Martha’s Vineyard.
Afterwards we repaired to the porch to enjoy the beautifully bug-less
Vineyard night, and to smoke our stogies.  That haggis wasn’t so bad, was
it?  No.  Not bad at all.  Maybe we’ll do it again next year.  Aye. To  next
year!

1984 all over again