all four and a half pounds of it. It’s like a wingless, legless capon sitting in my freezer.
I’ve decided to have a post-Burns’ Day supper for my Scots friends who were so kind to indulge me with an invitation to theirs last year. They’re coming the last Friday in February; it’ll give me a little lead time to wrassle with the beast.
It’s a good sort of goal for chilly gray February. I’ve eaten mighty fine haggis in my day but light springtime fare it is not. I forgot to ask Marlon (the organic butcher) what the ingredients are in this one. (I am expecting the usual suspects.)
I’m going to round out the haggis dinner party with smashed potatoes and tiny steamed peas with butter.
... and Sir Harry Lauder.
Feb 09, 07:39PM PST | 2 cheers | 1 comment
last week in the butcher shop of Marlon, the organic butcher. I thought to m’self Self… Rabbie Burns’ Day has come and gone… and though there was plenitude vis a vis fish and chips and Burns’ poetry, there was no haggis. Yet here in the butcher’s freezer, two haggi remain. I circle the biggest one.
I do not know how to prepare haggis. Perhaps there is no time like the present.
Feb 08, 07:22PM PST | 2 cheers | 2 comments
He said, You promised! And I’m practically not even a kid anymore. And I told Grandma I would wave to her from the Eiffel Tower. And you never take me anywhere.
Well, now. Let’s just get Don Henley playing The End of the Innocence and get me weeping, shall we? And when were you thinking, lad, of this extravagant venture?
Next month. April at the latest.
Let me think about it, child.
Feb 08, 02:44PM PST | 6 cheers | 0 comments
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