ON THE INTELLECTUAL EQUIVALENCE OF HAGGIS AND MOLTO DOLCE
Really, those two examples conclusively prove that neither Scots nor Texans should cook. Ever. Unfortunately, with the election of Pumkin McPumpkinface, and the hardening of attitudes and mental arteries in the red states, it is extremely likely that Chinese and Thai restaurants will eventually disappear from large parts of this country, as cooks discover that, on second thought, dead possum and raccoon are vastly over-rated, what on earth were they thinking, they miss parts of the world where McDonalds is the worst you can eat, and dammit all, they need a bath.
As the cooks leave, there will be only varmint, frito pie, and haggis.
And lots of battered and deepfried oddments. Breaded bacon.
Eventually people will bloat up there, and explode.
Then their sons in the basement will starve.
Or the video game will malfunction.
Fat cadavers in trailer parks.
Sorry, after listening to cigar-huffing Trump-supporting middle-aged white men in Marin for three days, the milk of human kindness has turned to yoghurt. Not everyone in the red states is a troglodyte.
Just like not every Israel-supporter is sane.
[Some of them are so nouveau alt-right it's a friggin' miracle they can still remember how to spell 'bris milah'. Participation on the local pro-Israel page has become a waste of time, and a pointless exercise in frustration. I occasionally cruise in to see what the local Likudnik Thought Police are up to, get disgusted, and cruise right back out again feeling queasy and diseased. Several of my friends no longer even bother.]
I realize that. Again, sorry.
Anyhow, the misguided soul who reminded me of haggis did so by using a photo of haggis in a can (with a sombrero) as her profile picture. Entirely disregarding what that says about the contents of her brain, canned haggis belongs only in a backyard bombshelter. There will be no temptation to eat it before the apocalypse, and, like Molto Dolce (a rancidly overperfumed pipe tobacco which is very popular among basement dwelling vikings in the hinterlands), it will probably stay good forever. Centuries from now the aliens will dig it up, and say "I don't know what it is, but it's still ... moist".
Both are rather like the mummy in that Brendan Fraser movie. You know, the one with Rachel Weisz playing a nerdalicious steaming-hot shiksa.
I have a history with haggis. It is regrettable. See Bless This Haggis and Bugger Bobby Burns.
As a side-note, I should mention that I first became aware of a cutey-pie pipe-smoking woman and her adorable fuzzy-faced husband on the other side of the country when I saw a photo of her enjoying Molto Dolce on one of the pipe smoking pages. She has since slowly, hesitantly, timorously even, stepped foot into VaPer and Latakia territory, but she still puffs abortions like Cult Blood Red Moon and Apple-Pumpkin Strudel.
It's a shame, is what it is.
IN THE KITCHEN WITH EVELYN CARNAHAN, ENGLISH EGYPTOLOGIST
Thanks to my suddenly remembering both that movie AND several horrible aromatic pipe tobaccos, I am now visualizing a cooking show featuring antique recipes. Probably inedible -- those things were popular world-wide once, ask me about the recommendation in many cookbooks to boil shrimp for an hour -- and, like Haggis, something that resembles Eric Cartman on a plate, but every cuisine still has examples.
You will never find Frito Pie here.
I once did post a recipe for bloodsausage, but I think I lost several readers that day. What might happen if I told you how to make Haggis is not to be imagined. That said, if you ever do make it, let it cool until it congeals, cut it into thick slices, batter them, and dump them in the deepfryer.
What comes out will greatly resemble eggplant.
Haggis-flavoured pipe tobacco.
For Bobby Burns Night.
Burns Night is customarily celebrated on January 25.
You will want to be out-of-town then.
I recommend it.
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Labels: Fruitloop tobacco