Fresh Pict Haggis!

Day 67: Och, th' wee beastie is nabbit! Ane twa-p'und haggis, tucked awa' neat an' ready for th' eatin' on Burns Night. The hunt was done despite torrential rain, tree-toppling winds and some small confusion about the time at which the creatures might emerge, but once secured, the fresh-Pict trophy was placed in a snug hibernation chamber where it will be coddled and cosseted over the next six weeks to keep it from losing weight or becoming over-stressed. Haggis, for all their ferocity, must be handled gently in captivity and, as Burns Night approaches, they should be given a diet of neeps and tatties plus a wee drap o' ale or beer.

Catch As Catch Can

Day 51: The penultimate leaf had fallen from the calendar, and I had gone north on a mission of some importance. As I was returning and solely upon a whim, I thought to make a survey of the old hunting grounds to see if by chance the haggis were running. Navigating there from an unfamiliar direction, I felt that I might have lost my way through the tangle of by-ways but kept on in my course as dictated by instinct. My sense of the place proved equal to the task, and soon I found myself at the lair of the beasts. I took myself with stealth into its heart and when I was deeply entrenched within, I gave forth the cry, "Haggis! Two p'und! Haggis! Haggis!" whereupon to my surprise and delight, a female of the species crept out from her cubby. I leapt upon her and bare-handed, wrestled her into my game bag and cinched it tight lest she gnaw herself to freedom before she could be properly caged. Upon arrival home, I placed her immediately in impound, there to be fattened for butchering, destined for the Hogmanay meal. Now for the neeps and tatties, an easy task for they are common and require no great skill to snare.

#realhaggismatters

Day 104: (Bonus post, just for giggles. Maybe I should have left the Glen Livet in the cupboard.)

Hit The Woad, Mac

Day 71: Och, an' it was wi' great stealth an' cunnin' thot I trackit the wee savage beastie to its lair an' there did discoover na jist the ane, but its kith an' cousin alike. Three haggis! Three did I take wi' nought but a wee dirk an' strength o' arm. Fellow Scotsman Maureen McLean put claim upon a carcase, but the remainin' twa (adult and bairn) repose in the coolness o' the freezer to await Hogmanay and Rabbie Burns' natal day respectively. I canna pipe them in, so I give ye an Ode to Woad for the occasion (NOT original!):

What's the use of wearing braces?
Spats and hats and boots with laces?
Vests and pants you buy in places
Down on Brompton Road?

What's the use of shirts of cotton?
Studs that always get forgotten?
These affairs are simply rotten,
Better far is woad.

Woad's the stuff to clothe men.
Woad to scare your foemen.
Boil it to a brilliant hue
And rub it on your back and your abdomen.

Ancient Britons never hit on
Anything as good as woad to fit on
Necks or knees or where you sit on.
Tailors you be blowed!!

Romans came across the Channel
All wrapped up in tin and flannel
Half a pint of woad per man'll
Clothe us more than these.

Saxons used to waste their stitches
Building beds for bugs in britches
We have woad to clothe us which is
Not a nest for fleas

Romans keep your armours.
Saxons your pyjamas.
Hairy coats were meant for goats,
Gorillas, yaks, retriever dogs and llamas.

Tramp up Snowdon with your woad on,
Never mind if you get rained or snowed on
Never need a button sewed on.
Go it Ancient Bs!!

Burns Night

Day 104: Th' esteemed 'aggis is devour't, an' a pint o' dark ale t' see it on its way in celebrating o' wee Rabbie Burns' natal day. A fine braw beastie it were, neeps an' tatties t' keep it company. A guid Burns Night t' th' lot o' ye, an' I leaves ye wi' th' Bard's immortal "Address to a Haggis":

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, they 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 a Haggis!

Live-Trapped!

Day 66: Having discovered a den a few years back, I went upon an exploratory quest a month ago to see if the beasts were still active. Noting that the colony was thriving, I observed them for a time before laying baits, but then several smaller members of the species approached warily. I left them undisturbed, my eye set on larger game. Today, at long last, I sprung the live-trap, capturing a two-pound haggis in its prime. It was much easier to take the prize in this manner than the customary armoured, armed hunt, and I am assured of the freshness of the creature's succulent meat when I have fattened it sufficiently to slaughter in celebration of Robert Burns' birthday on January 25th.

Chieftain Of The Pudding Race

Day 104 honors Robert Burns whose 256th birthday Scots everywhere celebrate today. I give you a translation of the great man's own words regarding the eminent haggis.

Address to a Haggis

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, they 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 (i.e., Scotland) a Haggis

The Noble Haggis

Day 102: 'Tis a wee dilemma I'll be havin' here: whether to celebrate Burns Night as my Scottish kin are sitting down to table tomorrow, or wait until the following day when the calendar rolls around to January 25 on this side of the globe. It is a problem which confronts me every year, this international disagreement of clocks. Scotland is eight hours ahead of the Pacific Northwest. I had not done the calculations until now, and have just discovered that a compromise can be reached. At 3 PM January 25 Pacific Time, it will be 11PM January 25 in the country of my maternal forebears. I think that calls for an early dinner.