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Haggis
I know, Burn's Night is over, but we still wanted to eat Haggis.
After all, we are in Scotland.
After all, we did not have a proper Burn's Supper on Burn's Day.
Now there is something we felt compelled to change. How would we be able to look the folks at home in the face, having been here for an entire year and not having tried haggis? It is simply a matter of pride. So, after a fun time at the shops trying to find a haggis in plastic instead of the more natural variety, we discovered an entire shelf of the things at Morrison's.
There were also vegetarian ones. Apparently being a vegetarian does not keep Scots from eating something that at least resembles the original, since there is no better way to celebrate Scottish ness than eating an artificial sheep's stomach stuffed with shredded sheep's lungs and other lovely entrails.
Even the guys in the halls who NEVER cook, who does not know how an oven works, apparently had haggis.
Well, and so had we and are hence initiated a bit more into Scottish culture.
Meet: our Haggis. 
Doesn't look exactly yummy, does it?
I am not sure what made us choose the more traditional haggis instead of going for the vegetarian variety.
So, our dumpy little friend gently rotated in a pot for an hour and then was duly inspected, cut and eaten. Well, and assaulted with a camera.
So… Haggis. Yeah.
The good thing was that there was so much pepper in it that we did not really taste any of the stuff we were actually eating, but on the whole, it was not unlike the more traditional means my grandma would cook.
Which means there were a lot of strange little whitish bits you are not eager to identify, and a lot of brown-grey goo you are not keen to know the origin of, either.
The good thing about grandma's cooking is, however, that we knew what we were dealing with and so did the thing one does with scary cooking - add enough mashed potatoes to drown the haggis in.
So on the whole, it was not terrible. It reminded me a lot of a mixture of Leberwurst and black pudding. Not at all horrible, but you do have to remind yourself to eat what is on your plate instead of thinking about what it actually IS what you are eating. Brrr. It definitely does not make me want to write a poem about it.
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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 wordy of 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 sconner,
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!
~ Robert Burns
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