Elephants and Haggis
I'm quite interested in the fact that two of you -- Lauri and Greta -- knew "duille," which is the Irish for "leaf," but nobody knew "welkin," which is English for "sky." I'm not bothered, mind you -- I'm pleased that we've got some actual Irish running around out there. But it's odd. Anyway. 50 points each to Lauri and Greta. Well done!
So. "Elephants" got finished up, buttons and all:
And off it will go in the mail tomorrow.
Now then, as to the pool Rachael started, all by her bitty self, and which nobody else entered: I was finished with the knitting yesterday afternoon; I sewed on the buttons today at noon; she figured I'd finish it last night; she wins. A valuable prize will be speeding to her in the mail, as soon as I can think one up.
Now! Major news! It's Bobbie Burns' day, so we all have to eat haggis. Yes everybody. Yep, you, too. No, stop that! I do NOT want to hear any excuses. I'm eating haggis, you eat your damn haggis. We're all in this together.
When we were in Edinburgh, Sam tried haggis everywhere we went, and he liked it very much. And I tried it too, and pronounced it good. Last year, as an Extra Special Christmas present, I ordered some haggis from Scotland, and we had it for Bobbie Burns' Night. At which point we discovered that the haggis one is fed in the hotels and restaurants in Edinburgh such as non-Scots might frequent is not exactly like the haggis one gets if one orders it from Scotland in the mail. No, this haggis was much more...intense.
Yes. Well. The child and I ate some of it, because we have a certain code of honor around here, which is that you don't diss the food of your people,* any of them, no matter how addicted to sheep's innards they were, but we mostly ate our neeps and tatties. Sam said he really liked it. He ate a lot, and then he ate a bunch of the rest of it over the next week, in sandwiches on pumpernickle bread, where, I gather, it resembled a sort of chunky liverwurst. Oh, the cats were pretty excited about it, too, and could not be dissuaded from jumping on the table and trying to drag it away. Which I thought says a lot about the dish, really.
Anyway. A haggis, being exactly as big as a sheep's stomach, since that's what they cook it in, isn't that small. So we put half of it in the freezer. And today, on this sacred day, I'm going to resteam it, and make more neeps and tatties, and we're having a Bobbie Burns feast.
And next year? Well, we'll negotiate, Sam. Love ya, honey, but you might not be getting another frozen haggis from Scotland.
*Sam? MacDuff. Me? Elliot.
So. "Elephants" got finished up, buttons and all:
And off it will go in the mail tomorrow.
Now then, as to the pool Rachael started, all by her bitty self, and which nobody else entered: I was finished with the knitting yesterday afternoon; I sewed on the buttons today at noon; she figured I'd finish it last night; she wins. A valuable prize will be speeding to her in the mail, as soon as I can think one up.
Now! Major news! It's Bobbie Burns' day, so we all have to eat haggis. Yes everybody. Yep, you, too. No, stop that! I do NOT want to hear any excuses. I'm eating haggis, you eat your damn haggis. We're all in this together.
When we were in Edinburgh, Sam tried haggis everywhere we went, and he liked it very much. And I tried it too, and pronounced it good. Last year, as an Extra Special Christmas present, I ordered some haggis from Scotland, and we had it for Bobbie Burns' Night. At which point we discovered that the haggis one is fed in the hotels and restaurants in Edinburgh such as non-Scots might frequent is not exactly like the haggis one gets if one orders it from Scotland in the mail. No, this haggis was much more...intense.
Yes. Well. The child and I ate some of it, because we have a certain code of honor around here, which is that you don't diss the food of your people,* any of them, no matter how addicted to sheep's innards they were, but we mostly ate our neeps and tatties. Sam said he really liked it. He ate a lot, and then he ate a bunch of the rest of it over the next week, in sandwiches on pumpernickle bread, where, I gather, it resembled a sort of chunky liverwurst. Oh, the cats were pretty excited about it, too, and could not be dissuaded from jumping on the table and trying to drag it away. Which I thought says a lot about the dish, really.
Anyway. A haggis, being exactly as big as a sheep's stomach, since that's what they cook it in, isn't that small. So we put half of it in the freezer. And today, on this sacred day, I'm going to resteam it, and make more neeps and tatties, and we're having a Bobbie Burns feast.
And next year? Well, we'll negotiate, Sam. Love ya, honey, but you might not be getting another frozen haggis from Scotland.
*Sam? MacDuff. Me? Elliot.
<< Home