THE TRAVEL ARTICLE

Some readers may have gotten the impression, from one or two previous essays here (about haggis and Bobby Burns), that I bear ill-will toward the people of Scotland and their marvelous culinary achievements. A general distaste for things Scottish. Not so! Scotland is a great and wonderful country, far better than Northern Ireland or Wales, and much more interesting too! Well, except for Edinburgh, where some distant kin folks live, who were ungracious to my grandfather when he visited the uncouth sods after World War One. The less said about a place where crotch mildew, if left unchecked, eventually attacks the brain, the better.

And their food, while sometimes oddly named (almost unpronouncable), is delicious and unique. Cockaleekee. Haggis. Partan Bree. And killer rabbit.

Scotland is a place well worth visiting, assuming that you have no relatives there.


"A spectacularly beautiful land; brutal, like her people and their food."
-----Sir Arthur Grimbottam, upon visiting his in-laws during his only sojourn in Scotland.


I bear the robust and gallant people of Scotland no ill will.
Some of my best friends are from there.
As well as "kinfolk".

Of course, the next time I make haggis, which might be never, I shall probably experiment with a filling composed of glutinous rice and chopped pork belly meat, pinch of five spice, instead of the customary boiled sheep innards and oatmeal. It's easier to get those ingredients near where I live, whereas mutton offal and that oatmeal stuff sadly not so much.

Quite likely not any lapcheung, because while one or two pieces in lomaikai or joong are nice, it would take about a dozen whole sausages for haggis, and that would be boring amidst the fatty pork and rice. Soaked black mushroom and perhaps some water chestnut, as well as a splash of rice wine.

In fact, a Burns Supper with the haggis described above, plus stirfried oyster sauce mustard cabbage, several cups of hot strong milk tea, and a slice of Dundee Cake to follow, before going to the single malt, and omitting all recitation of "verse", would be lovely.

Robert Burns would approve.

I love Scotland.



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DO YOU SMELL A BAGPIPE?

There were more skeevy types out last night than I expected, and at one point the burger joint was slightly crowded. My friend shot down my lovely theory with a cold dose of reality. I had speculated that these were all men celebrating Burn's Night; they had enjoyed the whisky, and tolerated the doggerel -- whisky makes even crappy poetry overlookable -- but had drawn the line at haggis, and said "stuff this garbage, we're going out for something actually edible". On this hand I have haggis, and on this one a burger. The choice is easy. He remarked that we were probably the only two men there who know who Robert Burns was.

What is peculiar is that, seeing as haggis is the most famous specialty of Caledonian cuisine, there is not a single restaurant in San Francisco which offers it as a regular menu item.

The special tonight is haggis? Okay, we're leaving.

There are TWO terms for haggis in Chinese: 羊肚雜碎布丁 ('yeung tou jaap seui pou ding') and 肉餡羊肚 ('yiuk haam yeung tou'). And while the Chinese are infinitely curious, gustatorily, haggis is not on the menu of any of the restaurants in Chinatown. Which isn't odd.
They are curious, but not self-destructively so.

SUBTITLES ARE IMPORTANT

You can indeed make a vegetarian version of haggis. Easier to digest, and a more pleasing mouthfeel. But if it tastes the same, why would you want to?
Tofaggis? Hagofu? Dear lord no.

I've read Beowolf in the original, and in translation, as well as several Icelandic sagas ditto.
All read better in tranlation. It's the same with Bobby Burns poetry.

There are reasons why you seldom see an obese Scotsman.
If you do, he was probably raised on English food.



The singing at the karaoke place was, appropriate for the evening, perfectly horrid. But the hot water (my friend had Irish whiskey) was good, and we had cigarillos on the way to the bus stop. Earlier I had smoked the last pipe of the evening.



AFTER WORD AO 11:40 AM, WEDNESDAY

Several of my friends say that haggis rocks, it's the bomb, nothing like a good haggis, why it's wonderful, celebratory, an event, memorable. In fact, they fondly eat haggis, or happily remember the last few times they ate haggis. I am baffled.



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A BAG OF OFFAL

Today, as you know, is Burn's Night, when people all over the world gather in scratchy woollen skirts to recite doggerel and eat the inedible. Except for the skirts, it's like a celebration of the culture and speech habits of Yorkshire. Everyone's spiritual home. The bag of offal in this post refers to a "haggis", that being a football shaped comestible composed of chopped innards and oatmeal inside a cleaned sheep's stomach which is steamed for hours, then ceremoniously carried around the room and venerated with loud noises.
After which sooty firewater is drunk.
Much of it.


I have made haggis. I have eaten haggis.
And participated in the jollification.

Because I am a Dutchman, and therefore naturally a sneering and sarcastic blighter, people never invite me to Burn's Night anymore. They are afraid of what I'll do.

The haggis is Burn's writing made flesh.
It cries out for Sriracha.
It is sad.



Also, all you men in plaid skirts with socks to match look bloody ridiculous.
Drunken refugees from a Catholic girls school. Or reformatory.




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HAGGIS, NEEPS, POTATOES, WHISKY

Tonight is Bobby Burns Night, when sanity-impaired yobbos celebrate the doggerel of Robert Burns and stuff themselves with haggis. Washed down with as much whisky as makes that dish edible. I've made haggis, and consequently do not eat it. And for sound medical reasons abstain from whisky, so my observance of the festival will be sour and disapproving.

All rational people should avoid haggis.
Which tells you what Scots are.

HAGGIS
A sheep's plucks (heart, liver, and lungs) are minced, mixed with oatmeal, spices (salt and black pepper) in a sheep's stomach. The resultant glob blob is then boiled or steamed until done or the second coming. It should be remembered that the lungs need to be simmered a very long time with the breathing tube hanging over the edge of the cauldron draining black muck into a receptacle before they can be considered edible.

What you end up with is a thing that is served with boiled turnips and potatoes.

Why don't you have a hotdog instead?


Same ingredients, better.


The reason why Bobby Burns is lauded is because his poetry is not as bad as Ewan McTeagle. Or William McGonagall. A remarkable accomplishment.

"What's twenty quid to the bloody Midland Bank?"

How about two bob till Tuesday?

Final thoughts: Haggis is ghastly. Probably better than Thanksgiving turkey as cooked by many Americans. Scots whisky is fine stuff, superior to Bourbon by such a wide margin that it might move people to song, except that poetry in the English language is rather drab, which explains the adulation of doggerel-meisters like Burns, McTeagle, and McGonagall. If chanted in the right accent, their verse sounds altogether German, and mercifully unintelligible.

If you're wearing a kilt in this weather, your privates are freezing off. No wonder you need the whisky. Poor sodding bastards. The vikings gave up on raiding Scotland because the climate was awful and the takings were poor. And good lord, that cuisine!


Happy Burns Night, you heathens.



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ADVICE FOR THE TRAVELER: CALEDONIA

Scotland is a very modern place. They have electricity, hot and cold running water (that comes out of a tap), automobiles, and suppositories. Quite up to date. You do NOT need immunizations to go. And you won't get scurvy.

Well, you are not likely to get scurvy. Although British people, including the Scots, hardly ever touch fruits and vegetables, other than canned peas and beans, and the idea of nutritious food may have escaped them.

You don't need to bring matches to build fires so you can stay warm.



Modern plumbing was a late arrival in most of Northern Europe, but soap IS available in the larger cities.

If some birth-defected native, all stunted, bent, and red-headed, tries to offer you pots of gold, you had best refuse. Oh wait, that's Ireland.

Do not refuse the canned peas and beans; these might be the only vegetables you will see for several weeks. Except for leeks and oatmeal, which often crop up in the strangest concoctions.

You'll need suppositories to cope with that.



One the whole it's rather like Pennsylvania.
Except much more civilized.
Better pizza.


Watch out for highway men.




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BOBBY BURNS' GARBAGE

Tomorrow night is when many people in the English-speaking world outside the British Isles will be eating a dish of compost, in celebration of Scotland's most celebrated poet. No, not Ewan McTeagle, or William McGonagall, both beloved by thoughtful types, but Robert Burns, who wrote shitty doggerel in gibberish.

The dish that will be served is Haggis. Sheep offal mixed with oatmeal and pumpkin pie spices, boiled for several hours in a nominally cleaned sheep's stomach, served with a puree of boiled tubers, and a waste of whisky.

[A Scottish dish that consists of the heart, liver, and lungs of a sheep minced with suet, onions, oatmeal, and seasonings, boiled in the stomach of the animal.]

In lieu of what they could be eating. A good French Ragout or fricassee.
Or modern Britain's two national dishes: Chicken Tikka and Vindaloo.
Both of which are much devoured by drunken Scotsmen, btw.


Some of my friends will engage in this custom, performed with grim cheer every January 25th., in a rather ridiculous ritual with like-minded types.
Boiled sheep guts. Speeches. Bagpipe "music". Whisky.

Several will be wearing scratchy woolen skirts.

And, heaven forfend, there may be recitation.

I begrudge them their very queer festivity.


Primarily because I am a sour and disapproving sort, but also because I hate quaint dialect usage and bad verse. The vulgarity and pretentiousness of the event get on my nerves, much like little children putting on a play, bagpipe music is best outdoors in any case, and I have made haggis.

Anyone who has ever made haggis is disgusted, or should be, and will gladly chuck Burns Night for solitary drunkenness and a corndog.


Almost anything can be made passably edible by hotsauce (Sriracha), but it is doubtful that Haggis will be improved.

It would be a waste of hotsauce.




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CLIMATE SALUBRIOUS, AND APPLES VERY FINE!

Does your heart fill with ecstasy? Another organ? Because if it doesn't, you may be defective. Courtesy of Tim who care-provides for glandered fossils in the great American Heartland, I have been made aware of this.

He posted a link to McGonagall Online -- A Tribute to William McGonagall, Poet and Tragedian of Dundee.

From whence the gem below.


Beautiful Nairn

All ye tourists who wish to be away
From the crowded city for a brief holiday;
The town of Nairn is worth a visit, I do confess,
And it’s only about fifteen miles from Inverness.

And in the summer season it’s a very popular bathing-place,
And the visitors from London and Edinburgh finds solace,
As they walk along the yellow sand beach inhaling fresh air;
Besides, there’s every accommodation for ladies and gentlemen there.

Then there’s a large number of bathing coaches there,
And the climate is salubrious, and very warm the air;
And every convenience is within the bathers’ reach,
Besides, there’s very beautiful walks by the sea beach.

The visitors to Nairn can pass away the time agreeably,
By viewing Tarbetness, which slopes downwards to the sea;
And Queen Street is one of the prettiest thoroughfares,
Because there’s splendid shops in it, and stocked with different wares.

And there’s ornamental grounds, and lovely shady nooks,
Which is a great advantage to visitors while reading their books;
And there’s a certain place known as the Ladies’ Beach,
So private that no intruder can them reach.

And there’s many neat cottages with gardens very nice,
And picturesque villas, which can be rented at a reasonable price;
Besides, there’s a golf course for those that such a game seeks,
Which would prove a great attraction to the knights of clubs and cleeks.

The surrounding scenery of Nairn is magnificent to be seen,
Especially its fertile fields and woodlands so green;
Besides, not far from Nairn, there’s Cawdor Castle, the ancient seat
Of the noble Thanes of Cawdor, with its bold turrets so neat.

And its massive proportions is very imposing to see,
Because the arched entrance is secured by a drawbridge and a fosse;
And visitors will be allowed all over the grounds to roam,
Besides shown over the castle if the Earl is not at home.

The scenery surrounding the castle is charming in the summertime,
And the apples in the orchard there is very fine,
Also the flower-beds are most beautiful to see,
Especially in the month of June, when the birds sing merrily.

Then there’s the ancient stronghold of the Bays of Lochloy,
And visitors when they see it will it heartily enjoy;
And a little further on there’s the blasted heath of Macbeth,
And a hillock where the witches are wont to dance till out of breath.

And as the visitors to Nairn walk along the yellow sand,
They can see, right across the Moray Firth, the Black Island so grand,
With its productive fields and romantic scenery,
And as the tourist gazes thereon his heart fills with ecstasy.

And Darnaway Castle is well worthy of praise,
And to oblige all visitors there are open days,
When they can see the castle where one thousand warriors in all
Oft have assembled in the Earl of Randolph’s Hall.

And in conclusion I will say for good bathing Nairn is the best,
And besides its pleasant scenery is of historical interest;
And the climate gives health to many visitors while there,
Therefore I would recommend Nairn for balmy pure air.

------William Topaz McGonagall


I am torn between mentally hearing these lyrics in the accent of David H, an Irishman who punctuates his rhetoric with the 'F' word and is a vehement Trumpite, or Allan B the somewhat leftwing bartender from Scotland, snarling unintelligibly in Glaswegian gibberish.


Years ago a grammar school teacher forced all of us to listen while a "talented" classmate read the epic poem she had written.
It was horrendous, but there were rhymes.
I lost several braincells that day.


The "poem" above describes Marin, where I work.
The air is balmy, there are witches.
It is very spiritual.


Poetry.



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COMMANDO UNDER THE FLAPPY BIT

One of the members of the local pipe club is of Scottish descent, and actively promotes things such as Burns Night and the wearing of skirts. Which is somewhat in keeping with being a pipe smoker, as Scotland is known for good tobacco (not grown there, no longer made there or likely even sold there, but sometimes found there in the days when Britain was great), fine woolen cloth, and plain albeit truly bizarre food.
Have a bit of skink with your haggis, dear.
Ooh, lovely, and thankee kindly.
Black buns?

At our recent meeting he made the staggering claim that Robert Burns was a splendid poet.


Look, I suppose that if you've got only one (1) versifier, whatever he does is jes' wunnerful and worth celebrating, but the world might not agree.

Besides, you are forgetting Ewan McTeagle.


This blogger is not vested in Scottish poetry or cuisine, and would argue that such things don't actually exist, or, if they do, that they shouldn't. At the meeting I smoked two bowls of McConnell's Folded Flake in stunned silence, before making off with the open tin of GLP's Union Square.


Mr. Shaw disquisitioned for slightly over an hour on the romance and beauty of Scotland and its glorious history of violent real-estate transactions.
With visuals, and a wee sidetrack into liquor.

He had come well prepared. He was wearing a kilt (and a tiny sword), he had coloured slides, and there were bottles.


SHORT DOCUMENTARY CLIPS

For the benefit of the club exile stuck in the snows of Boston these past few years, as well as the members presently living among the Hobbits in New Zealand, here are two videos that perfectly encapsulate the all-too brief history of Caledonia presented last night.



[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GR6Jcp_vYVg.]


[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sVbb6pZLfzU.]

It was a good meeting, and there was some lovely baccy floating around. The weather, though rainy, was warmish, and because the subcontinental liberal did not come to irritate the Hibernian savage, the cigar lounge at the far end of the building was peaceful, rather than the pit of howling madness and outraged screaming it normally is. They did not disturb us civilized smokers like they usually do.

[Irish tobacco: what you smoke to disguise the odeur of your mildewed tweed.]


As a lagniappe, here is an infestation of pipers:


[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QcA4ffFNiAk.]

Particular mention must be made of the lovely shortbread provided by Neal (there were two types, he baked them himself ) and the fact that more Rattray tobacco was consumed last night than any other brand; Old Gowrie, Hal O'The Wynd, Black Mallory, i drugiye togo tipo.


Afterwards, the kilt-wearing individual with the hairy calves, a graphic artist, and a Dutch person all repaired to a tavern, where yet more whisky was consumed and tobacco enjoyed. The two first mentioned gentlemen retired after a while, but the Netherlander stayed to stir up revolution and insult the Trumpites, certain he could find such among the cigar smokers present.


As a matter of principle, I wish to state there are more cretins and potential thugs among cigar smokers than any other segment of the population, and that it is a grievous burden when well-brought-up pipe smokers are forced to share space with those repulsive bastards.
What is this world coming to?
Heavens.

We share Scotch, but that is all.

TOBACCO INDEX


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ON THE INTELLECTUAL EQUIVALENCE OF HAGGIS AND MOLTO DOLCE

A misguided soul reminded me of Haggis, which is a version of liverwurst that I desire to forget. Haggis was invented by non-self-realized Texans, and is eaten when Dallas wants an alternative to Frito Pie, which is also altogether nasty. Soul food for unmentionables.

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.


Flag-wrapped slugs.


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.
A concept.

Burns Night is customarily celebrated on January 25.
You will want to be out-of-town then.
I recommend it.





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POOPED OUT FROM THE PLANET ZIRTEK

Someone I know is convinced that a mutual acquaintance is a space alien. Despite the clear evidence that she is from Scotland. Well, perhaps not so clear; she speaks excellent English, and is fully intelligible. That's a lusus naturae for Scots. And a miracle almost like the second coming. But her rational friends know that she's from Scotland.
And a very kind person, too. Gentle.

He's remains convinced that she's a space alien. All space aliens claim they're from Scotland, it gives them automatic cover. People will assume, he says, that so-and-so is NOT a space alien, he or she is from Scotland; that explains the eccentric behaviour, colourful speech and mannerisms, and sometimes visible antennas. It's a "Scottish thing".
Scots don't have antennas, I keep telling him.
But apparently I don't know anything.


I've got to stop encouraging the nutballs. It's like living in a zoo.


San Francisco is the catch-basin of the continental United States.
All the crazy flowed downhill.



We need to demand that the rest of the country take back all their defective specimens. We don't want them, and they'll add to the diversity in dishwater places like Mississippi and Oklahoma.
Where they need people who think different.
We've got plenty of those.

All of you convinced that space aliens live among us, go home.

The mothership is bringing us more Scots.
They've been pooped out by Zirtek.
My haggis just grew antennas.
It's a sign.




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A FAIR ESTIMATION OF BOBBY BURNS AND HAGGIS

This evening, probably dozens of people will gather all over the world to commemorate Robert Burns, a versifier whose paltry talents encompassed alliteration and mispronunciation in near-equal nauseating measure.
Some of them will look like Mel Gibson in his madder moments.
Their faces will be painted partially blue.
And they will snarf sheep guts.


BURNS NIGHT

The famous Scots doggerel-meister was born on January 25th.
Seven years after he died, friends gathered to celebrate his life.
As indeed, many misguided Caledonians still do today.
This dubious objective is best achieved by eating haggis.
Which is one of the most monstrous things ever invented.

The Scots produce the finest woolens, tobaccos, and whiskeys.
And there are many wonderful foods in Scotland as well.
So the only logical explanation for haggis is a sado-masochistic streak a mile wide.
That also explains the deep-fried Snickers bars, btw.


Haggis is made by taking lamb 'plucks' (heart, lungs, liver - called 'plucks' because they can be yanked whole out of the animal carcass) and boiling them for several hours, then chopping them fine, adding oatmeal and onion, and finally stuffing the resultant ghastly pulp into a cleaned lamb stomach. After several hours of further steaming, this unmentionable object is brought forth from the incubation room while loud bagpipe music is played.
In order to swallow even a mouthful, you must get drunk first.
Strike that...
Drunk before, drunker during, and totally blotto after.

Vegetarian versions made with tofu are marginally less edible.


I prepared haggis once. The black muck that dripped out of the windpipe which hung over the rim of the cauldron while boiling the lungs fair made me sick.
Apparently it was a damned good haggis too, but I do not regret not eating any part of it.
Fortunately it wasn't my kitchen, or I'd have burned the house down.
Or at least gotten rid of the pots used to prepare the horror.

We invaded Irak for far less reason.
So the Scots had better watch out.

Philosophically, haggis makes complete sense. Especially if you're a Presbyterian, a Puritan, or a sour old prune.
Nice warm woolens? A very good thing.
Bagpipe music? Also a good thing.
Whisky? A mighty good thing!
Haggis provides a necessary contrast to all three of those that will keep you from sinning. There is NO danger of enjoying too much of a good thing when haggis is present. In fact, an excess of haggis will make you wake up screaming every night from the memories.

The quantity must be precisely calibrated to provide the perfect counterpoint.
In my humble estimation, being in the same county as a haggis is plenty.
Anything more, like inhaling the steam or even standing near it, is too much.

Reports indicate that eating haggis makes your voice go up several octaves.
Perfect for Bobby Burn's crappy poetry or the chipmunk song.
Problem is, it's likely to be permanent.


Let's hope that Scotland eventually produces a far better poet, so that we may soon celebrate that man's demise with good whisky, and finally eating something tasty, like partan bree.
Even smoked haddock, crappit head, or Cullen skink.
Anything but haggis!



AFTERTHOUGHT

Massive quantities of whisky will NOT get the taste of that nasty Pictish gut spackle out of one's mouth, or erase the trauma from one's subconscious.
Not even Ardbeg, which smells exactly like run-off from the Tracy tire fire. Ardbeg is a truly excellent Scotch with a horrific flavour which proves my contention that the Scots are sado-masochists.
I cannot think of a better made undrinkable product.

Well, possibly Red Stag could be worse.
But no one sentient touches that.
Nascar fans, perhaps.



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BLESSING THE HAGGIS

This post is offal.

In August of 2001 someone on the Suriname mailing list asked about Haggis. In connection with kwakoe (a summer festival for Surinamers living in P'tata), celebrated every year in the Bijlmer.

[Explanatory notes: Surinamers are Dutch Guyanese, mostly of African or Creole ancestry but also including every ethnic and cultural group under the sun in not insignificant proportion. Kwakoe (Kwaku) means Wednesday in Kromanti, which is a Voodoo (Winti) ritual language derived from Ghanaian languages spoken by the Africans brought to Suriname (Dutch Guiana), and is the name for a man born on that day of the week. It is also the name of the monument in Paramaribo to the abolition of slavery on Wednesday July first, 1863. Consequently the statue, of a man breaking free of his chains, has been identified as personifying the archetype of the African Surinamer, a free man at last, finally in charge of his own life. It was natural that the name would be adopted for a two month long festival (weekends in July through August) celebrating Surinamese heritage (and food) in what is probably the largest Surinamese city in the world, namely the Bijlmer Meer Polder housing estates in South-East Amsterdam. P'tata (potato) is the affectionate nickname that the Surinamers gave to the Netherlands.]

In response to that query I mentioned that Haggis is quite inedible unless one is Scottish or insane, and further explained that it is made by taking the plucks (heart, lungs, liver - so named because they can be extracted from the animal corpse by grasping and 'plucking') and boiling the crap out of them for several hours before chopping them fine, combining them with oatmeal - chopped onion - spices, stuffing this unholy mixture into a cleaned lamb stomach, and steaming the frightful concoction several more hours. A vegetarian version can be made with tofu (substitute cheesecloth for lamb stomach), which will be marginally more edible.

Recently E-kvetcher, a fellow blogger and friend of this blog, asked tongue-in-cheekily what the appropriate brocha for haggis would be.

I am in the unfortunate position of having given much thought to haggis, and consequently can authoritatively answer that question.


THE BROCHA FOR HAGGIS

Let us assume that you have been served a portion of haggis. The whiskey was nice, the bagpipe music far less so, and your hosts have now dumped an evil substance with the texture of grainy spackle and no identifiable food related characteristics on your plate. You are of two minds as to whether to eat any part of it. You stare at it with considerable surprise and distrust.
And yet you grasp your fork anticipatorily; you will...... fork it.


In this case, the correct practice (in Scotland) is to recite: "Boruch Ata Adonoi Eloheinu, melech ha olam, oseh ma'aseh vereishis".

.
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Better, though, to politely demure, and say "Boruch ata Adonoi Eloheinu, melech ha olam, shegemalani kol tov".


Sotto voce.


I wish to stress that last part. These folks actually EAT this stuff, and have a well-deserved reputation for being dour and bloody maniacs. Remember that bad Mel Gibson movie? You do not want them to start pulling out the blue face paint, do you? These are the same vicious people who will deep-fry a Snickers bar without a second thought. Be carefull.

[Note that if one is in Scotland, teatime is wonderful, but for dinner better go to a foreign (English) restaurant and stick with safe and reliable choices such as spotted dick and boiled baby. These are not savoury as haggis is alleged to be. But safety first.]

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Final word on Kwakoe: If you are in Amsterdam during July and August, definitely consider attending the festival. Even if the prospect of bloodpudding, fladder, offal, screamingly hot chilies, and bacalhao in peanut-curry doesn't excite you, there are many other fine things to eat (Surinamese cuisine is absolutely terrific, and, along with Indonesian cuisine represents the very best that Dutch food has ever achieved). Buy yourself a tall bottle of Parbo beer or an ice cold glass of almond syrup and soda water, find a place to park yourself, and listen to some great party music. Swingi, man!

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Note: the offal discussion happened over at Steg's place:
http://boroparkpyro.blogspot.com/
E-kvetcher's blog is here:
http://search-for-emes.blogspot.com/
Need I mention that I read their blogs regularly?