Head to Head with Haggis

Rabbie Burns

Saturday night Karl and I got all dolled up to attend Burns Night sponsored by Riverside, the boys' school. Burns Night, a celebration of the Scottish poet Robert Burns, takes place on or near his birthday, January 25. Not surprisingly, Burns Suppers occur mostly in Scotland, but are presented by Scots clubs and Scottish expats all over the world.

I had the impression that Scots had a big presence at Riverside, but it turns out there are only about six native highlanders on staff. I think my inflated perspective stems from the fact that this small group includes Ben's teacher, Miss Logan, and the principal, Mr. Chisholm.

The Riverside Burns Night was conceived eight years ago when the Scottish contingent concocted the idea at Christmas dinner. Likely over whiskey. The PTA took the idea and ran with it. Five weeks later a few dozen staff, faculty, and parents sat down to poetry and haggis. Burns Night has become the social event of the Riverside School calendar, and this year 140 of us turned out with touch of tartan.

And me without my kilt.

We loved seeing so many Scots dressed in full regalia. 

Here's Mr. Chisholm, the school principal, modeling his outfit. He even shared what he had in his sporran -- cell phone, keys, and the money from the evening's raffle tickets. Basically, it's a fancy man purse.

Burns Nights follow a standard program.

A Welcoming Speech

The Immortal Memory
Mr. Haig (Year 2 teacher) gave a short speech on Burns, outlining his greatness and relevance today.

The Selkirk Grace

Some hae meat and canna eat,
and some wad eat that want it,
but we hae meat and we can eat,
and sae the Lord be thankit.

Toast to the Haggis
All guests stood to welcome the haggis procession, consisting of the piper and the chef carrying the delicacy. Below is a still from the video I took of the haggis being paraded around while the piper played "Scotland the Brave." (You might want to check that out, it's kind of fun.)

After the procession, an honored guest read "Address to a Haggis." You can find a translation (in standard English) for the poem plus a little cultural context on haggis here. Or, if you'd prefer the Czech translation, go here. (And who knew we would have so many haggis opportunities in Prague?)

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 ye 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;
Then 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 scunner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckess as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Tho' bluidy 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 whistle;
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 gratfu' prayer,
Gie her a Haggis! 

Mr. Clarke (religious ed teacher) waits for the appropriate moment to slice into the casing.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An' cut ye up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich! 

 Ah! There it is!

I love the look on the chef's face, who may be in over his head here. DHL brought the haggis in from Scotland, so the most this guy did was warm it up. He's pretty obviously Czech, and (to our eyes) pretty obviously repulsed. "Gushing entrails," "warm-reekin' rich" indeed!

After the address, we were invited to partake of the banquet. Our table, at the top of the hall near the band, was called upon to start the queue. The next thing I knew, I was the first in line for haggis.

The menu included regular haggis (above), vegetarian haggis (are you kidding me? what could that possibly be!? the entrails of a soybean with oats?), beef stew (should ye be feeling unsure of the haggis), neeps (mashed turnips), tatties (mashed potatoes) and a whiskey cream sauce (which is on my plate between the neeps and the haggis). Everyone got his or her own wee dram of Johnnie Walker Black Label whiskey.

The verdict? Karl and I agreed: the haggis was fine, tasty actually! It was like meatloaf with steel-cut oats and some unusual herbs and spices. Once we put the whole entrails idea out of our heads, we were good to go. The only thing we didn't like was the neeps. But then we've never been big neep fans.

Selection of Poems and Songs
Following dinner, several duos and groups performed songs.

 

Included in this group are Mr. Coats (you can probably figure out who he is), the Information and Computer Technology teacher and leader of Ben's computer club, and Miss Logan (3rd from the right), Ben's teacher.

Toast to the Lassies
An address to the ladies in the audience -- but not really. Kind of a silly monologue detailing a man's idea of a woman's foibles.

Reply and Toast to the Laddies
Ditto above. Just reverse genders.

Auld Lang Syne
We're going to have to assume the crowd linked arms and belted out "Auld Lang Syne" at the evening's end (had forgotten Burns wrote that!), because we didn't make it that far. We left just after 11 as the tables were being pushed back for some dancing. I wish we could have stayed, but I was fighting the beginnings of a cold, and we already heard they were planning to go until 3 or 4am. And I Just Can't Do That Anymore. Unfortunately.

We were sort of on the fence about attending Burns Night, particularly the one of us lacking a Scotch-Irish background. But we had a delightful evening -- lively music, great company, strong whiskey (okay, not such a fan), and haggis! Wasn't expecting to be a convert. But there it is.

Should you find yourself invited to a Burns Night, let not the poetry of Monty Python, such as below, dissuade you.

Horace

Much to his Mum and Dad's dismay
Horace ate himself one day.
He didn't stop to say his grace,
He just sat down and ate his face.
"We can't have this his Dad declared,
"If that lad's ate, he should be shared."
But even as he spoke they saw
Horace eating more and more:
First his legs and then his thighs,
His arms, his nose, his hair, his eyes...
"Stop him someone!" Mother cried
"Those eyeballs would be better fried!"
But all too late, for they were gone,
And he had started on his dong...
"Oh! foolish child!" the father mourns
"You could have deep-fried that with prawns,
Some parsley and some tartar sauce..."
But H. was on his second course:
His liver and his lights and lung,
His ears, his neck, his chin, his tongue;
"To think I raised him from the cot
And now he's going to scoff the lot!"
His Mother cried: "What shall we do?
What's left won't even make a stew..."
And as she wept, her son was seen
To eat his head, his heart, his spleen.
And there he lay: a boy no more,
Just a stomach, on the floor...
None the less, since it was his
They ate it – that's what haggis is.

Haggis. Just needs a better PR rep.

Do dheagh shlàinte! (Your good health!)