Becoming reacquainted with an old friend.

Well it was a busy weekend. Friday evening was "pit night" for Cub Scout Pack 22. We prepared all the cars for the next days races. 8:00 a.m. Saturday found me in Lenape Woods surveying a bridge with an aspiring Eagle Scout and 1:30 found me trying to officiate the actual annual ritual that is the Pinewood Derby. The derby, through the efforts of many dedicated volunteers, went off without a hitch. When the track was packed and the hall cleared I headed for home and a beer. The beer was Fuller's ESB. What a rare treat to my hop-blasted palate. A lovely balanced brew with delicate English hop notes in the nose and palate and an all-to-rare balanced taste. A nice mix of grassy hops and caramel and crystal malts. Sublime. It paired nicely with some good flicks with the kids. Akeela And the Bee and the original Jurrasic Park. --Then Return of the King Disc Two - I love the Siege of Minas Tirth and the Battle of the Pellenor Fields. Sunday found me at Scout Headquarters arranging for Ceremonial Performers at the Pack Cross-over Ceremony at the end of February.

As for the Burns Supper, Alas it was Walkers Shortbread and a wee dram of Balvenie on the Boat home... Nae Haggis - Chieftan O' the Puddin Race... thank heavens.

Ode to Haggis... Chieftan of Puddings

The Chieftan of Puddings himself...

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,Great chieftain o' the puddin'-race! Aboon them a' ye tak yer place,Painch, tripe, or thairm:Weel are ye wordy o' a graceAs lang's my airm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,Your hurdies like a distant hill,Your pin wad help to mend a millIn time o need, While thro your pores the dews distil Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dicht,An cut you up wi ready slicht,Trenching your gushing entrails bricht,Like onie ditch;And then, Oh what a glorious sicht, Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive: Deil tak the hindmaist, on they drive, Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve Are bent like drums; Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, 'Bethankit' hums.

Is there that ower his French ragout,Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad mak her spew. Wi perfect sconner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu viewOn sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him ower 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,Oh how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,The trembling earth resounds his tread,Clap in his wallie 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 wareThat jaups in luggies:But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,Gie her a Haggis!


For sure fairer words were never spoken and with this as inspiration no less?

Waiting for Robert Burns

As we approach the 25th of January Scots around the world turn to the works and wisdom of Robert Burns for inspiration. Alas, I remember him for his incomprehensible prose and his ode to Haggis (sheep offal, spices and oats stuffed into a sheep stomach steamed for hours or days). Not sure of the words anyore but it was some sort of litany of virtues about a glistening pile of steaming entrails and its inherent nobility. "Oh Haggis thy King of Puddings" is in there I think - no doubt a sharp lawyer for Anheuser Busch will be in touch with Burn's estate shortly, seeking among other things a "cease and desist order" from such confusing verse. "Your honour the public might confuse the "King of Puddings" moniker as an endorsement by our product, the "King of Beers!" Just imagine that pairing. I'll have the chilled Bud and the steaming Haggis - the pyloric valve if you have it?

This is real food. The sort of cookery one might expect from half-frozen men in kilts. Men with red noses and cheeks. Men who are feeling no pain after toasting every one from the King to the person that polished their Claymore. Manly toasts made with firey Scots Whisky not to mention downing a pint or two of "Wee heavy" (strong scots ale) . Men who are numb from being subjected to the equivalent of Now 27 played on bagpipes (an instrument with an air bladder also made from sheep entrails I might add).

While I too feel some knship to Burns, perhaps a more muted celebration will be in order - a dram of Balvenie on ferry home with the usual suspects perhaps? Memo to self- lay on some Scots ales for the weekend as well.