Haggis
1 sheep’s stomach, heart and lungs of one lamb, 1lb lamb trimmings, 2 onions, 8oz oatmeal, 1 tbsp salt, black pepper, coriander, mace, nutmeg.
An initially offensive concoction that begs to be buried deep in the annals of history with slavery and communism, this culinary oddity requires nothing more than the innards of a lamb and a sturdy stomach.
Preparation is a good afternoon’s job. Start by washing the vital organs, before adding the trimmings (use your imagination here) and boiling the mixture for two hours.
No reference to haggis would be complete without mentioning Robert Burns, Scotland’s favourite son and greatest export, after – of course – his snack of choice. While Coleridge had his albatross and Wordsworth his daffodils, Rabbie preferred his beloved ‘Great Chieftan o’ the Puddin-race’. ‘If ye wish her gratefu’ pray’r,’ Burns advises, ‘Gie her a Haggis!’. Learning how to spell might help with the gratefu’ pray’r’-ing too, I should add.
Thankfully, Burns’ Night – when you’re supposed to eat your annual haggis – was only a few weeks ago, so you can justifiably feed these to your housemates in the name of tradition rather than masochism.
By now your boiling is probably done – there’s an awful lot of organic matter in that saucepan, and any Shelley fan would know better than to give it too much energy. Having said that, seeing a live haggis brings good luck. Earl Nyaff of Uirsgeul reportedly spotted one of the blighters on his way to watch horseracing in 1817 and won £50. Sadly, he was trampled by the winner afterwards, but £50 is £50.
Mince the mixture, adding the oatmeal, onions and spices. This all gets spooned into the stomach that you’ve cleaned and soaked overnight in salted water, before sewing it up with some dependable thread.
Note – before you stick it in boiling water for a good three hours, prick the stomach a few times. You don’t want the bloody thing exploding all over your kitchen. Even Ainsley Harriot and his Fairy power spray can’t deal with half-cooked entrails.
Three hours later, you’d think the ordeal was over. Oh no. The pièce de la resistance comes in the shape of a bagpiper, who must ‘pipe’ the meal to the table before Burns’ ode is read with all the enthusiasm and vigour of a pre-Bannockburn William Wallace. I’ve been privy to the ceremony a few times now, and I must say it’s rather impressive.
And how does it taste? Disturbingly good, actually, you racist bastards.
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