My husband, Dave, is proud of his Scottish heritage; his mom emigrated from Scotland as a young adult and most of her family is still there. For years, she helped organize a Burns Supper in VT, where she lives now. We loved attending and made the trip up each January. Disappointed when the Suppers were no longer held, we decided to take matters into our own hands.
This will be our fifth year hosting a Burns Supper in our home. What is a Burns Supper, you might ask? To be honest, Wikipedia can probably give you a better answer than I, but my quick response, if pressed, would be that it is a night for celebrating the life and work of the Scottish poet Robert Burns, held on or around his birthday, January 25th. There is much conviviality and ceremony around the dinner table, with multiple speeches, readings, and toasts (did I mention the copious Scotch whisky?). And, at the center of it all...the haggis.
Whenever haggis is brought up in conversation (which is not very often, to be sure) it is usually met with "Ew!" or "Gross!" or straight up gagging noises. I have little patience for this, as 99% of the meat eaters making these declarations of disgust have never tried a morsel. I betcha they eat hot dogs, too (at least we know what's in our haggis!). Now, I understand that the thought can be off-putting and not everyone is a fan of offal, but c'mon, don't knock it 'til you try it. Taste it and hate it? Fine; we're all good.
Our first year, we bought a haggis from a Scottish butcher in New Jersey. It was good enough to convince the frightened group around our table that haggis was, in fact, edible. However, knowing that any haggis you buy in the USA isn't really haggis, we decided to make our own the following year. We used a combination of beef (tongue & hearts) and lamb (liver) and stuffed the whole thing into a natural sausage casing. It was a roaring success.
Fast forward to 2014 when we hit the jackpot: our friend, Jodie, a fearless cook, is friendly with a sheep farmer and somehow convinced him to give her all the offal we needed for a true haggis (a stomach and all the pluck!). His next slaughter was the night before Easter and he called her when the bits were ready to be picked up. Since the stomach needed to be cleaned before going into hibernation until the following January this meant that Jodie spent hours of her Easter holiday washing, boiling, and scraping. The task is messy. It is stinky. It is not fun. We love Jodie verrrrry much.
We serve the haggis as a starter, with oatcakes, and follow it up with a traditional Scottish meal. For us, this typically consists of lamb, usually braised; mashed neeps (rutabaga); mashed tatties; and a green vegetable, often Brussels sprouts. We try to keep dessert simple and not too sweet: scones served with fresh whipped cream, lemon curd, and raspberry jam.
The below photos were taken throughout our preparations last year. Some of you may have seen them posted to social media as we ramped up for the annual dinner, but if you are interested in learning more, read on.
These two books acted as our haggis bibles. Since we had never used the lights (aka lungs) or a real stomach, they came in very handy.
Our vacuum sealed bounty.
This is what we worked with for our haggis (L-R): four hearts, two livers, one set of lungs (one lobe is in the colander below the cutting board)
Traditionally, the pluck would be simmered with the windpipe still attached and hanging out of the pot, through which impurities would drain. Since ours came without, we simmered the lungs separately from the other bits so we could simply drain off the liquid.
You can easily see the difference in clarity between the pot holding the hearts and livers and the one with the lungs.
Post-simmer. Can you believe how much the lungs shrank?!?!
After trimming out any yucky bits (veins, etc.) from the lungs and liver and taking the meat from the hearts, each cut got its own grind. The fat was ground coarse; the heart, medium; the lungs, fine. The liver was grated by hand, just like cheese.
mise en place, clockwise from bottom left: liver; hearts; onions cooked until meltingly soft + sweet, pinhead oats; fresh pepper; fat; lungs; cooking liquid; fresh parsley, sage, and thyme.
Everything was mixed together by hand and checked for seasoning.
One last rinse of the stomach...
...and then everything got stuffed inside.
The stomach was tied up with butcher's twine, making sure to leave room for expansion (you do not want this to burst when it cooks).
After about two hours of simmering, foil-wrapped, in the remaining cooking liquid (bolstered with water to cover), the haggis was ready.
We don't have any photos of the haggis starter all put together, as the party goes into full swing once it emerges from its pot. As soon as the haggis gets placed on the cutting board everyone finds their seat, we switch on some music to "pipe it in", the haggis is addressed*, the Selkirk Grace** is recited, and then, we eat! The meal is punctuated by toasts, "to the lassies" by a chosen male guest, "to the laddies" by a woman, and "to the immortal memory" by Dave (if we can't con anyone else into doing it - that one takes research); readings; and once, my friend, Allegra, even surprised us with a song (did you know Burns also wrote songs?!?!). It has been our distinct pleasure to introduce this treasured tradition to our friends and I find myself looking forward to Burns Night the way my children do Christmas.
"Here's a bottle and a honest friend
What wad ye wish for mair, man?
Wha kens, before his life may end,
What his share may be o' care, man?
Then catch the moments as they fly,
And use them as ye ought, man;
Believe me, happiness is shy,
And comes no ay when sought, man!"
Here are a few more images from last year:
oatcakes for the haggis; recipe from Gourmet
gigantic rutabaga from Blooming Hill Farm
cream scones, recipe from Cook's Illustrated
lemon curd; recipe from Alice Medrich via Food52
Brussels sprouts prep
benefit of hosting: leftovers!
*Address to a Haggis by Robert Burns
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye worthy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.
Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi perfect scunner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.
Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis
**The Selkirk Grace
Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat, and we can eat,
Sae let the Lord be thankit.