Burned Out
The reality of the pandemic has finally hit home. No one is gathering and feasting this year, at least not anyone with common sense and an adventurous culinary spirit. From the very first year I began raising small ruminants at least one brave soul sought me out in late December or early January to procure specific ingredients for January 25th, a Burns Supper, complete with haggis. In nearly twenty years this will be the first that no Scotsman has sheepishly sidled up to me at market inquiring as to his ability to lay hands on a ruminant stomach to authenticate the tradition.
Other than a brief introduction to Robert Burns’ poetry in college, I’d not had the delight in a proper Burns Night celebration. However, after moving back East to farm a co-worker from my day job asked about the ingredients for haggis. Given my background in the food industry I offered one better—I would not only provide the ingredients I would also cook it. It couldn’t be much different than Pennsylvania Dutch Hog Maw (aka: pig stomach) which had been a staple of my childhood.
At a used bookstore I found a small vintage cookbook devoted to all the foods served at a Burns Dinner. The ingredients for haggis were similar to Kokoretsi, a dish made from offal I’d both helped to prepare and eaten over the years at Greek friends’ annual family reunion lamb roast. Nothing ever went to waste and it seemed the odd bits were always considered a delicacy. This would be no different.
That first haggis would also be my last despite many of the guests admitting that the darn thing tasted better than ones they’d previously eaten. Cleaning the stomach of a ruminant is much different than that of an omnivore and it took days to get the smell off my hands. Later in my farming years I’d learn the secret to removing the scent was washing my hands with toothpaste after the non-medical remedy for jumpstarting a ruminant’s stalled digestion by swiping a cud from a healthy animals and giving it to the one with the tummy ache (think sourdough starter).
When I began processing under USDA Inspection for farmers markets getting all the ingredients became impossible as lungs are considered inedible by the United States government. None of the butchers I’ve employed have ever been keen on cleaning stomachs either unless offered additional compensation on top of their standard fee. Each year I explain this up front and despite the added costs, Burns aficionados agree to the price.
So what is all the fuss about?
Long before there was Wendell Berry waxing about his agrarian lifestyle, Scotsman Robert Burns (1759-1796) was a farmer and lyricist, often referred to as Ploughman Poet, although history reveals that he was a lousy farmer. Regarded as the national poet of Scotland, his most recognized works include Auld Lang Syne that we just got done singing on New Years Eve and A Red, Red Rose which we’ll be reciting in a few weeks on Valentine’s Day. His work influenced generations of writers like John Steinbeck, J.D. Salinger, and musicians, including Bob Dylan.
Five years after Burns’ death, a group of his friends formed a club to celebrate his birthday in order to encourage Scottish language and literature which has perpetuated over the years and spread throughout the world.
Haggis take-out just isn’t the same as a group of fans and friends getting together to recite Burns’ poetry, sing his songs, make toasts, drink whiskey, wear kilts and listen to bagpipes. This year’s celebration was reduced to Scotch Pie with a side of neeps and tatties (turnips and potatoes) and of course, a bit of Scotch to toast the Bard of Ayrshire on his birthday.