>Burns Day

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It’s Robert Burns’ birthday today. All over the world Scots will be celebrating with haggis and whisky and poetry so I thought I’d assist with your menu if you are having a Burns Supper. (At our house we have an annual Burns/Australia Day where Haggis and Kangaroo go on the BBQ).

So here’s Haggis with Whisky, Tatties and Neeps (from The Extraordinary Cookbook by Stefan Gates) with translation :
1kg cooked, ready to eat/re-heat haggis
1kg neeps (turnip/swede), peeled and quartered
250g butter
1 thumb-sized piece fresh root ginger, grated
ikg tatties (potatoes), peeled and quartered
handful chopped chives
1/2 tsp grated nutmeg
good whisky

Heat a large pan of water, bring to boil then turn off heat. Turn up the heat again and bring water to gentle simmer to poach haggis all the way through – about 1 and 1/4 hrs for 1kg haggis.

Meanwhile you can boil the neeps until tender. Then mash with 1/2 the butter and the ginger. The tatties are also boiled until tender then mashed with the remaining butter, chives and nutmeg.

To serve, cut open the haggis while intoning the Address to a Haggis, and serve with the champit tatties and bashed neeps. Pour a splash of whisky over the haggis.

Yummo!

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 o’ 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 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 lyke 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 sconner,
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him ower his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ bloody 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’ 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 gratefu’ prayer,
Gie her a haggis!

(It pains me to do this, but you’ll find a translation to English here)
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