Robert Burns Night

I share my birthday (January 25th) with the famous Scottish poet, Robert Burns and on that evening, at many locations around the world, his legacy is celebrated with great pomp and pagentry (sort of). The food of choice is haggis, tatties and neeps, a wee bit of single malt scotch and much revelry and laughter. It is customary for the haggis to be brought around the table to the music of bagpipes.  A bit of Robert Burns poetry is then recited and the haggis is cut open revealing the steamy contents.

Our assembled party was held at a local restaurant called Calagrana. The invitation specified that there would be no dancing and that formal attire was expected.  Elizabeth had bought me a "smoking" or a tuxedo in Bologna during our pasta class there in December for just this occasion. It had been over 45 years since I had worn a tuxedo (Senior prom 1963). So on the 25th, we got ready to go and I put on my new pants and jacket. After my weight loss, I must admit I felt and looked pretty good. Elizabeth dressed up in a pretty green long dress and flashy top with rhinestone buttons and matching earings. And after a few pictures, off we went.

The restaurant was rented for the evening and twenty local folks were on hand. At least three men were in full dress kilts and looked quite dashing. After a few glasses of wine we settled down at the table for a bowl of risotto wit ro0asted quail on the top. Risotto in Italy is normally cooked al dente and is often a bit too chewy for me. My stomach just doesn't handle under-done pasta and risotto very well. I prefer mine a bit softer (morbide) and have asked restaurants to cook mine a bit more. The risotto was good tasting just a bit too under-done for me.

Then came the processional for the haggis. It was brought out of the kitchen by the short stocky Italian chef, and proudly marched around the room to the music of bagpipes from a CD. The haggis was placed on a table and a few words were spoken by Al, our host (and a strapping Scot).  The haggis was stabbed open and the steam escaped. Tatties and neeps (mashed potatoes and mashed turnips respectively) were plated with the haggis. A bit more Scotch was poured, wine flowed and later a decorated cake.

Then the poetry recitals started. I was first with "Red red rose",  one of Robbie's most famous poems. Other followed with Burns poetry, some by Dylan Thomas and a song (Flow gently sweet Afton) sung by my wife with two gentlemen accompanying her performing as the stream. All in all it was a fun night and as we left, we were still celebrating and the rain started.

The stabbing of the Haggis
by A. Lawrence Vaincourt

The neighbor folk invited me to down to the city hall
Where in honor of the Scottish bard they planned to have a ball
For it would stir my torpid soul, he told me with a grin
When, to the skirling of the pipes, they brought the haggis in
I confess I knew but little of the poet, Robbie Burns
Or even what a haggis was, but felt 'twas time I learned
So although I have no Scottish blood I felt it was alright
And in my best new outfit I went to the hall that night
Now the thing that most surprised me as I walked into the hall
Was the fact that many men there had no trousers on at all
My friend, he then assured me it was indeed the plan
That those with Scottish forbears wear the tartan of their clan
Now I couldn't claim a tartan and for this I was quite pleased
For I knew at least my trousers hid the hair upon my knees
So I sat down at a table, with my back toward a wall
And t'was then I saw the piper just beyond me in the hall
With the pipes slung o'er his shoulder and his drone pipes all a'tilt
He'd an honor guard behind him and they all were wearing kilt
The piper spanked the bagpipes, they began to squeal and wail
Much as a little pig might if you trod upon his tail
The chanter and the drone pipes then joined in a mournful dirge
And to leave the piper's presence, I confess, I felt the urge
Into the hall the entourage then marched with pomp and state
The piper and the escorts and the haggis, on a plate
The piper and the honor guard wore kilt and fancy dress
While on the plate the haggis lay, a sodden, lumpy mess
They marched to the head table where, with some grace and flair
T'was presented to a fellow who I saw was standing there
Who then addressed the haggis and I'll not repeat the words
For he spoke a foreign language that I'd hitherto not heard
The words he used were not in French, now that much I could tell
And I'm certain they weren't English for that language I know well
He spoke to it with reverence, as one might address a king
While on the plate the haggis lay and answered not a thing
He then removed a dagger from the waistband of his kilt
And in the poor wee haggis, he plunged it to the hilt
Then as the crowd applauded, why he looked about and said
"You realize I did that to make sure the damn thing's dead."
A diner turned to me and asked, "Is there any Scotch in you?"
I replied, "I've had a double, but I think I'll make it two."
As I sat and sipped my whiskey, humming Scotland the Brave
I could sense my Gallic forbears were turning in the grave
And as the scotch soaked in and I began to get a glow
I felt sorry for the haggis who'd been dealt a mortal blow
So I'll make a small confession even though it causes pain
Though the party was quite pleasant I would not go back again
For it is my firm opinion that it takes no courage, great
To stab a little haggis lying, helpless, on a plate

© 1989 A. Lawrence Vaincourt