Burns Night Supper

Day 104: I am proud of my Scottish heritage despite the fact that it came by way of "the wrong side of the blanket." I have never been quite sure whether it was my grandfather's mother or his grandmother who caught the attention of a McLeod, nor do I know if she was willing or taken by force. In any event, my grandfather went to Scotland to try to solve the mystery of his lineage, and if he did so, it was not related to my mother other than to assure her that she had McLeods of Lewis in her background. Our tartan is often referred to as "the loud McLeod" with variations of the spelling of the family name. I keep with the traditions of my upbringing, and while I would have preferred haggis to Scotch pie for my Burns Night supper, my moral compass will no longer allow me to shop with the butcher who supplied the meat. Scotch pie is made with lamb (if not with organ meats) and I season mine with mace, bay and mixed herbs. The pies are topped with a cornstarch gravy made from lamb drippings and beef broth, and the crusts are a light hot-water pastry. My recipe makes four individual servings. The pies are even better on the reheat, but Scot that I am, the Glen Livet goes back in the cupboard until Burns Night 2023.

The McLeod Project

Day 197: They call it the "loud MacLeod." The tartan of MacLeod/McLeod of Lewis is even more recognizable than Royal Stewart, being one of very few "plaids" with a yellow ground (a "plaid," incidentally, is a garment rather than a pattern). It also happens to be my family's tartan by way of an indiscretion committed by my grandfather's mother with a man of the clan, a dalliance which, according to his personal research, led to my grandfather's birth. My grandfather went to Skye in the early 1900s to speak with people who had known his family and found enough support for the story to convince him of his right to the tartan. Although that bloodline is somewhat diluted in its present incarnation (me), I am proud to be a McLeod (the spelling used in our line), if from the "wrong side of the blanket."

The necessity for sticking close to home has found me digging into my stash of fibers with a critical eye to potential projects. I had on hand a good supply of Caron "Simply Soft" worsted in gold, harvest red and black, having used the colours previously to make ladybug and bee hats for Joppa Flats. Those, or as close as makes no nevermind, are the colours of Clan McLeod. Obviously quite a bit heavier than I would have liked, availability suggested a project to follow the tablecloth: a McLeod shawl. I was able to find the exact sett written in the code unique to tartan weaving, and reinterpreted it to proportions reasonable for the yarn. Admittedly, the width of a shawl only allows for one full repeat flanked by a half-repeat to either side, but at approximately six feet in length, there will be five red intersections. The worsted-weight fiber makes the weaving move very quickly. By yesterday evening, I had woven over two feet even though I had spent very little time at the loom. I suspect the McLeod Project will be done by Tuesday.

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.

Woad

Day 175: "Woad's the stuff to show men! / Woad to scare your foe-men! / Boil it to / A brilliant blue / and rub it on your legs and your ab-DO-men! / Ancient Britons / Never hit on / Anything as good as woad to fit on / Neck or knees or where you sit on! / Good for us today!" So go the words we used to sing around the campfire at Society for Creative Anachronism events. Although my SCA persona was not Scottish, I am fiercely proud of my wrong-side-of-the-blanket descendancy from the McLeods of Lewis (Skye) and break out the garish yellow tartan for days such as today, World Tartan Day. Alas, it is past the season for haggis, but lovely weather for gadding about in woad.

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.

Och, But No' A Haggis

Day 59: Regrettably, I was not reminded of St. Andrew's Day (Scotland's national day) until it was too late to hunt the reclusive and estimable Haggis. However, I discovered their lair last year and managed to snare two, round and plump, before the season ended. The larger of the pair was reserved for Robert Burns' birthday, when it was served in Capt. Morgan Corbye's cabin with steaming neeps on the side. And alas, I have neither bannocks nor baps to accompany my meager meal tonight, but the day shall not go without a nod and a nobbler in honor of my Scottish ancestry.