Burns Night at me house

26 January 2011

357

R. Linda:

Introduction:

One of my readers wanted to know what exactly Burns Night was and why it was revered by the Scots, and Scots Irish in Scotland and Northern Ireland respectfully. So, I be going to explain this as best I can with a wee bit of a story. Let me start with a little background. Every 25 January it is Burns Night, or the Burns Supper. It is a Scottish tradition in which all loyal Scots sit down to a dinner of haggis and fine scotch in celebration of the memory of Robert Burns, Scottish poet extraordinaire, or as they affectionately call him, Rabby Burns. Yes, this be like a more staid and elegant St. Patrick's Day if you can imagine such. There be a ritual to it there be, but in a more formal dress than with St. Paddy's unless you call wearing green and drinking green beer until your socks are literally knocked off an Irish ritual, then okay by me! But the results are the same.

Recently, that scamp the Weasil who be Scottish as most of ye well know by now, approached me as he always does around this time of year, to host a gathering of the clan. Mostly HIS clan, I don't have one according to him as I be Irish, and we are just a bunch of misfits. So, setting THAT aside and taking no offence because it isn't worth my time and trouble, I decided instead of being berated into this, I'd quietly lie down and agree. After having had me parents here for three months, the fight was gone from me, I be sad to say.

So, since sitting down with the 'clan' can be a bad thing for yours truly (as I usually get ripped apart for me unthinkable crime, being born Irish), I decided since I be always up and down I'd not sit with them, I'd help Tonya in the kitchen. But we needed more help than that, we needed my muse to be present as well, and I be inviting YOU, my readers, to imagine you were there for an evening of amusement or more likely me evening of frustration at the expense of me sanity.


The Story (such as it is or was):

The hour arrived, and we were all in our places giggling and laughing I will say as we watched from the window, the lairds and their lassies arriving in full kilt and tartan gowns. Yes, this be a formal dinner as always and we tried unsuccessfully to afford it the respect it should have, but none of us being Scottish could contain our mirth, especially at the men in skirts.

I and my muse met the great clan as they arrived and ushered them into the lounge for oatcakes and cheese with a little Malbec. Yes, we decided to hold the scotch until dinner. My muse had no idea what the informal gathering needed but decided the "Oatcakes with cheese and some cheap wine will do them."

May I say me muse looked lovely? She tried to look Scottish in her dress with a ruffled blouse and a plaid skirt, but the orange crocs did her no justice. But the hair, the hair did. She had shaved her head so many months back and it never really grew in that she's been looking the hobbit for a very long time. Well, since this was not THAT kind of a party where hairy feet and short folk were invited, she donned . . . are you ready? She donned a wig of gigantic proportions to make herself appear taller. This monstrosity of a wig had a thick streak of blond in the front and was piled highly teased on her head like Sybil Fawlty. Yes, that is exactly who she looked like. If it had been a blue wig, which I now wonder why it wasn't (notwithstanding the plaid skirt and orange shoes), I'd say she looked a lot like Marge Simpson, but in this stead, she looked 'Sybil-lish". But wait, she was not outdone, I meself was dressed in a herringbone sport coat with plaid trousers. I was not wearing a kilt this year, so that's all I had and yes, I clashed terribly, but I didn't care, my excuse was that I AM IRISH. I did grow a moustache for the evening, more in sympathy for my poor bald muse. She in turn was calling me "Basil" all night and it was getting on me nerves.

Now as you will remember Tonya does not like the look of haggis, will not attempt to eat any and really doesn't cook it well, so our master haggis cooker, one Weasil took over the position of cook and waiter, in other words, he was my Manuel for the evening without knowing it. Tonya made a sufficient Polly being her gracious, happy self during meet and greet hour.

The next part of this ritual was for me to give an opening address or speech of welcome. I started by welcoming all the 'lards' and 'laydees' to the supper and declared it was a great hunting season for haggis and we had us a good un. "All very big and juicy if you please, and oh my, it will be a culinary treat to your Scottish clackers, I mean taste buds. Ha ha. So with no further adieu, please follow me into the dining room for a gastronomic experience you shan't well forget for a very long time. Shall we?" I gestured to them with a sweep of me arm towards the dining table.

I helped get them seated and then one of them decided grace was to be said, but not any grace, the Selkirk Grace, which I did say in very reverend dulcet tones, in as Scottish an accent as I could muster which my muse whispered, "You sound like a Mexican who's had too many mojitos. Stop rolling your 'r's!" I bent way down and was almost to me knees to whisper back in her ear, "Well, at least I don't look like a hobbit in drag Mrs. Egduf." Before she could bite me in the shins I stepped forward and gave the rest of the "thanks" in me best adulterated Scottish burr with an Irish brogue. It went like this:

"Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat, and we can eat,
'And sae let the Lord be thankit.
Bring on the cock a leekie!"

The last I added, I know it was a waste of my breath when all was needed was LET'S EAT! So the soup was brought out and we served it very nicely, all of us except the Weasil who was slurping his down so he could get back to his cooking of the main event in the kitchen.

"You made that up," Mrs. Egduf accused me aside.

"No, no for real that's IT." I tried to persuade her that the blessing was not of me making but she would not believe me and as the night played out, she'd whisper it to me in sarcastic tones laughing. I was insulted I was because I did not make that up!

"I know you can do better than THAT," she flung over her shoulder at me as she took out the empty soup bowls and I stood to the side as if I was the maitre d' or worse Basil Fawlty having "a moment."

Polly, I mean Tonya, was very at attention refilling any cock a leekie that was desired, and me muse went about the table with a scowl on her face taking away that which was finished. I stood there and made quiet, polite conversation hoping my muse's scowl wasn't noticed by the high and mighty. It was by Wolfie (who was there by force of Weasil's threat of hunting him down if he didn't attend), who leaned over to me and asked me if Mrs. Edguf had a permanent facial tick because her eyes were twitching each time she picked up an empty soup bowl. I had to come up with the excuse that the "Poor dear is a fudge addict, she ran out recently and she's not been entirely quite right since." We both tsked at that and shook our heads in sympathy for the plight of the poor dear, her eyes twitching as she shuffled off in her bright orange crocks with the gross soup bowls.

I braced myself for the next bit. The bringing out of the main course, more specifically the huge haggis. It was brought out, a large meatloaf encased in a sheep's bladder if ever there was one, by the proud cook himself, Weasil. And here's the best part, everyone stands upon its entrance which was held on high by the very proud pain in me arse, as he held it aloft on a very large silver platter, to the strains of the piper playing A Man's A Man For A That, whatever that means. And yes, a piper! Once Weaz placed the haggis on the table, he stood at the head and recited Address to a Haggis. Here goes for your entertainment pleasure, or smirking pleasure, whichever you prefer:

"Fair fa' yer honest, sonsie facie,
Great Chiefie o' da puddin racie!
Aboon dem a ye take yer placie
Painch, tripie or thairmie
Weel arr ye wordy o' a gracie
As lang's my armie.

The gronin trencher there ye fillie
Yer hurdies like a distant hillie
Yer pin wad helpie to mendie a millie
In time o' needie,
While thro' yer pores the dews distillie
Like amber beadies.

Hiz knifie seez rustic Labour dichtie, (here he drew a massive sword I did not realise he had on his person)
An cut yea up wi' ready slichtie, (here he slashed the haggis open much to me surprise)
Trenching yer gushing entrails brichtie,
Like ony ditchie;
An den, O wot a glorious sightie
Warm-reekin, richie!"

Unfortunately, there is a whole lot more of this address to a haggis, but I think you get the idea and when said in Weasilese, it makes little sense to continue. Anyway, the highlight of the entire night was when he drew forth that massive sword and slit the haggis open so the "Warm-reekin" STEAM would issue forth from the cut haggis to everyone's delight but me muse who excused herself along with me wife Polly, I mean Tonya, and they went off to barf. Now I would normally join them for that but the next part of this supper ritual was the one I liked the most. That is when they all stood up to toast the haggis with a dram of fine scotch (in this case Laphroaig -- to whom if ye be not a drinker of scotch whiskey, tastes an awful lot like iodine). Once this was done, it was down to business and the supper went to dessert and then it was pushing back from the table to let the meal settle as scotch was consumed, small talk was initiated, but then once the company was relaxed, then started the memorial to the memory of Rabby Burns.

But one thing if I may. As the haggis was being consumed, Weasil was running back and forth for more gravy for it. That gravy (his own secret recipe) is the only thing that makes the dish palatable. He was tripping over himself with the accolades of how wonderful it was and each time he went back to the kitchen for more, I was able to swat him upside the head. It was delicious, the swatting that is. He was not liking it much, but he had no choice but to make haste and ignore me. The last time out of the kitchen I was able to accidentally on purpose trip him, but unfortunately, he agilely made a great save and managed not to spill a drop upon his lady who was sitting closest to the kitchen door. I'll try again next year.

Toasts to Burns were continually made along with readings of his poems. Yes, indeed, me wife and me muse were blurry-eyed from all that poetry said in thick Scottish burrs. Then it was my turn to raise a few points upon the readers, but it was more me style to raise a few pints of the black stuff. Of which I was made all manner of fun for that. I was saved from this bullying by Wolfie who was entrusted with the annual toasting of the lassies, those lassies who prepared the feast, and those lassies who did nothing more than eat it. This turned into (what it usually always turns into) a speech on Wolfie's view of women in general. It was amusing, not offensive in any way, but I shall not repeat a word of it.

After Wolfie's expounding on the virtues of womankind or not, a blondie with big hair and of outspoken reputation stood up to toast the laddies, which always follows the toast and 'tribute' of the ladies (or not). She gave her amusingly droll but not offensive views on men and when that ended, anyone could get up and have a say with a toast as well. Well, this went on and on and we were down 30 bottles of Laphroaig by the time it was over. THIS led to the singing as you can well imagine it would! Ae Fond Kiss is the song sung most often. It got ridiculous because I kept requesting they sing it. I was doing it out of spite, and they were too drunk at the time to notice. Finally, Mrs. Egduf had enough and told me if I did not stop it, she'd get the ladder out of the garage, climb up and pull me newly grown "stash hairs out until it hurts!" I stopped because I knew full well she'd do that. So I changed it up to me personal fav, To a Mouse, To a Louse which got me into the same trouble after the twelfth time I requested we all "Sing it one more time for Rabby!" After that they sang what they wanted while Polly, Sybil and meself knocked back on a bottle of Jameson in the kitchen, hoping they'd get the singing out of their systems before we passed out.

Finally, when I couldn't take much more, and me two ladies were looking at each other with eyeballs rolling around in their heads, I stood up, went back in, leaving the kitchen door open behind me, and asked everyone to give a way to thanks for the evening, especially the fine drink and okay the haggis as well. Just as I said this, my muse made an unannounced fall from the great heights of the footstool she had been sitting on, passing out cold, while Polly, I mean Tonya, stared down at her like "Oh." I decided it was time to wind this all up. So I had them all clasp hands as be their tradition and sing that old Scottish fav I only ever hope to hear sung on New Year's but had to listen to one more time, Auld Lang Syne written by none other than . . . RABBY B! This was so out of key by the alcohol-drenched vocal cords of everyone, except Wolfie who still managed to shine like the bright Scots Irish knight he seems (but isn't), until by the very end with only Wolfie singing he was joined on that last note by the coming around muse of mine, who managed to make the word 'syne' sound like a cat being whirled around by its tail.

That woke the drunkest of the drunk up out of their stupors (exclamations of "Where's the cat?" and "Who's whooshing kitty by the tail?"), all except Weasil who had passed out or passed away, I don't know which, under the table for the past four and a half hours. We lost him on the first round of the songfest. The last I saw of him he was drinking straight from the gravy boat and then slowly slid under the table, unnoticed by the singing Scots, some of whom were trying to remember the words or getting them mixed up with that other old fav of theirs, The Next Time I see Scotland, which for many of them shouldn't be anytime in the foreseeable future by the looks of it. I wasn't the only one who wondered what was in that gravy because next I saw behind me in the kitchen were both Tonya and Mrs. Egduf, licking fingers from the gravy pot. Needless to say, the two of them are still not sober as of this hour, and Weasil, be sleeping it off in the dog bed in me loft. How he crawled up there I have notta clue. Cleanup as usual fell to yours truly and if you think scraping a platter of haggis into the bin be a pleasant task, then you have lived a sheltered life.

I don't know why I be writing this to you R. Linda, being you are sitting in the baby's highchair staring out at the snow. I could just come over there and regale you just to be mean, but nah, I'll let you pick this up in your mailbox once you are home, so you can enjoy the reliving of it. LMAO.

Lang May Yer Lum Reek!
Gabe
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