haggis and other things equally as gross

Yesterday was Robbie Burns day. It’s some Scottish heritage day that is celebrated with haggis and poems and other traditions that undoubtedly confirm that Scotland is vastly unique in its culture. Bron, Ian and I all went over to my mom’s flat last night to celebrate and during the course of the evening we were made to tolerate Scottish music, Mom’s Highland Fling/Lord of the Dance rendition, cock-a-leekie soup (complete with prunes!) and the highlight of the evening…a pudgy, black haggis (EEK!). Seeing it bubble away in the pot was enough to make my stomach do flick-flacks that would put an Olympic gymnast to shame but hearing that I had to be the first to taste it made me squeal in disgust. So, as Ian recited some grossly unromantic poem and offered me a mouthful of crumbly sheep’s blood and oatmeal, I took a deep breathe and did what I had to do. In all fairness, it wasn’t half bad but I don’t think it’ll make it onto my list of favourite foods anytime soon. The evening was entertaining to the point of laughter stomach-ache – it often is at Mom’s – and I feel enlightened, somewhat, as to a part of my heritage. Mom absolutely loved it. Now I know why I’m marginally nutty from time-to-time. I am half Scottish after all. And my mother’s daughter.