If It's Not Scottish, It's Crap!

Tonight, January 25, 2009, marks the 250th anniversary of the birth of the great bard of Scotland, Robert Burns. Burns Night is an institution in Scotland that honors the life and works of the poet through much eating, singing, and (most importantly) drinking of copious quantities of single malt scotch.

I'll be hoping to drop by The Edinburgh Castle here in San Francisco to hear some pipes, down a swift pint of Belhaven Scottish Ale and lift a wee dram (or two) of Laphroaig in honor of the man.

And yes, there's likely to be haggis involved somewhere in the evening's festivities. I first sampled authentic Scottish haggis many years ago during a Highlands roadtrip with a friend. We were in the seaside town of Oban and stumbling back to the B&B after last call at the pub. Profoundly drunk from too many free pints offered by friendly, boisterous Scots, we decided to try and soak-up some alcohol before bed with a stop at the corner chip shop.

However, this being the Scottish Highlands we discovered that haggis & chips was on the menu. Call it Scottish pride or drunken foolishness, but we both ordered haggis (to go) and bolted from the store out to the cobblestone beach just across the street. Nearly falling several times over wet seaweed, we found a suitable spot upon which we spread out our feast.

The haggis was a long, kielbasa-sized length of deep-fried heaven. We didn't dwell on the fact that we were eating blood, heart, liver, and lungs stuffed into a pig's intestines. It didn't matter that the haggis had the internal consistency of oatmeal. Nor that the molten sausage interior blistered the lining of our mouths.

We were on a Scottish beach, in the Scottish Highlands, delightfully drunk on Scottish ale, and eating the food of the immortal Scottish bard.

May your Burns Night be as memorable!