I cannot let January 25th
go by without wishing
Robert Burns
a very happy birthday.
That's my post from
1/25/09.
Here 'tis:
Today, I hope my readers,
you faithful lads and lasses,
will all join me in celebrating
the 250th anniversary
of Scottish poet
Robert Burns' birthday.
Born January 25, 1759,
he was known as
The Bard.
I must give credit
where credit's due.
A big thank you
to dear friend Marion
who reminded me of
this most auspicious occasion.
Rabbie Burns, Scotland's favorite son,
was the embodiment of Scotland.
He was a scamp, a womanizer
(He fathered 12 children by 4 women.),
and a hearty believer
in that there was never a bad time to drink Scotch.
He was a man with a gifted tongue
and anyone who finds artistic inspiration in
boiled sheep's stomach
stuffed with guts and oatmeal
certainly gets my respect.
With that said,
I offer you Burns'
Address To A Haggis.
Address To A Haggis
1786Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the pudding-race! Aboon them a' yet tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o'a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin was 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 you up wi' ready sleight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like ony 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 make her spew Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view On sic a dinner? Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckles as wither'd rash, His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash; His nieve a nit; Thro' blody 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 mak it whissle; An' legs an' arms, an' hands will sned, Like taps o' trissle. 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 gratefu' prayer Gie her a haggis!
Oh great. Now I'm going to be talking like Mel Gibson in Braveheart (Click to skip the Tide commercial.) for the rest of the day. Oh, I just found this for your viewing pleasure.
Without further ado,
being of Scottish descent myself,
(There's my tartan.)
I raise a toast to Rabbie Burns
(Scotch, of course)
and prepare haggis
in celebration of the life of this
iconic Scotsman.
My mise en place:
the pluck
coarse oatmeal
lamb suet
ox bung
onions
Not shown are my seasonings:
rosemary
sage
thyme
savory
In case you're wondering, the pluck
is the "heart, liver, windpipe, and lungs of a slaughtered animal."
Slaughter regulations call for food-safe pluck
to have the windpipe removed and
the lungs cut across for inspection.
In traditional recipes,
the windpipe was hung over the edge of the
pot to remove any "impurities"
(i.e. sheep snot)
and was not used in the actual stuffing.
Do keep a close eye on the bubbling pot of offal,
as these "impurities" can cause a visually disturbing
brown froth to form if you boil too vigorously
but not in any way detrimental to the finished product.
Traditionally, haggis was packed into
the sheep's fourth stomach
or rumen,
the largest of the stomach compartments
which serves as a fermentating vat.
However, these are difficult to obtain,
due to possible fecal contamination,
so my alternative is ox bung,
which is the last yard or so of the large intestine of
a cow, cleaned and salted.
I washed the pluck and simmered it gently in
unsalted water for about an hour and a half,
until tender, then let it cool overnight in its own cooking liquid.
I chopped the heart and lungs finely
and grated the liver.
Remember, you don't want a pate.
You want a gravelly texture.
I thoroughly cleaned and salted my ox bung,
rinsed it out with cold water,
then laid it out on a tray
so I could giggle at a 2 foot long condom.
Work the filling into the full length
of the casing.
The stuffing will expand during cooking
as the oatmeal absorbs the fat and meat juices,
so you need to allow space for the expansion
while preventing any air bubbles
from turning this into a nasty disaster of
Hindenburgesque proportions.
I gently lowered my haggis
into simmering water.
The stuffing will swell
and the casing will contract
so use a skewer to pierce and release
any trapped air.
I cut the haggis while still piping hot,
letting the casing retract
and the stuffing ooze out attractively.
Ahhhh. The texture...
velvety and mouth-coating like foie gras,
yet with a nutty edge.
The taste ... richness like you'd never imagine.
The oatmeal absorbs the fats and flavors
and the powerful aromas of the meat are dispersed throughout.
It's a completely astonishing and comprehensive
sensory assault
and I can totally understand how this dish,
a veritable festival of offal
could inspire poetry and ritual in a nation
less emotionally constipated than the English.
Eyeeee, Rabbie,
I raise me glass in
a wee toast to ye mon.
ETA:
OK, OK.
Before I get in trouble,
I'll give you the link since I
probably shouldn't have done
this little hoax on my readers,
plus, it was probably wrong to
blatantly plagiarize.
OK, totally wrong.
I'm sorry.
But I couldn't resist.
Any wonder why the Scots are not known for their culinary 'delights'?
ReplyDeleteMakes me glad I'm not Scottish.
I was truly & wholeheartedly worried about you.
ReplyDeleteHah! I knew something was off, it didn't look like your kitchen... But I wouldn't put it past you to make haggis!
ReplyDelete