We went to a Burns night supper last night, held by some good friends of ours. We have been before a few years ago and upon being offered an invite, immediately accepted because we had so much fun last time.
The evening started at about 8pm when everybody arrived, and after having a drink together we settled around the table for the Haggis to arrive. It’s probably worth explaining what Haggis is - here’s what Wikipedia has to say;
Haggis is a traditional Scottish dish. Although there are many recipes, it is normally made with the following ingredients: sheep’s ‘pluck’ (heart, liver and lungs), minced with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt, mixed with stock, and traditionally boiled in the animal’s stomach for approximately an hour. It somewhat resembles stuffed intestines (pig intestines otherwise known as chitterlings), sausages and savoury puddings of which it is among the largest types. Most modern commercial haggis is prepared in a casing rather than an actual stomach. There are also meat-free recipes specifically for vegetarians which are designed to taste similar to the meat-based recipes.
The opening of the haggis is usually marked on Burns night by the reading of the “Address to a Haggis”, which you can read about here. We were very lucky to have a scottish girl present who did the honours, belting it out with a wonderful Ayreshire accent, and plunged a carving knife into the Haggis at the appropriate point of the poem.
W had a vegetarian Haggis specially cooked for her (I gather they use pulses instead of intestines), which I tried and actually preferred to the real thing. The taste was pretty much the same, but the vegetarian haggis was lighter.
The haggis was followed by the most wonderful beef wellington with roast potatoes and vegetables. Our hosts conceded that the main dish was in no way following tradition, but that it was at least a tradition in their house. It was wonderful.
Throughout the meal, and the various rounds of drinks that ensued, people would turns to stand up and recite the poetry they had brought with them. As you may have gathered from yesterday’s post (if you read it), I took “Hawk Roosting” by Ted Hughes with me to read. This it turns out was probably a mistake. Everybody else had light hearted poetry by the likes of Jenny Joseph and W Cope. There was also a snortingly funny poem (which was funnier after a couple of whiskies) from a book called “Now we are 60” all about dog excrement.
I chose a particularly dark point of the conversation to wheel out my poem, and prefaced it by talking about the falconry course I took part in some time ago - and the respect it had engendered in me for the birds - who don’t really fit in our modern world; mysterious killing machines that they are. I got through it fine, and everybody was suitably silent when I finished…