The Burns Night

In commemoration of their endearing poet Robert Burns, the British host annual gatherings to celebrate the author’s legacy through song, dance, poetry recitation, and…haggis. That’s right, the renowned Scottish delicacy of goat intestines and heart is just as central to “The Burns Night” as the bagpipes which lead it to the “top table.” Midway through the ceremony, after several folk songs and dedicational litanies, the haggis is piped in and placed before the enthusiastic, kilt-adorned chairman. Thereafter, the said overseer unsheathes a miniature dagger and proceeds to splice the seemingly rotted loaf with several fell flicks of the wrist whilst reciting an ancient Scottish chant to the spectators beyond.

I had the fortunate opportunity of witnessing this singular ceremony first-hand. I was, somewhat awkwardly, seated at the top table—thanks to Kathryn’s shrewd persuasive skills—with the Wilkinsin Dance Company, the group which performed traditional Highland dance throughout the evening. Seated on the end of what was a rigid, U-shaped table, I was surprisingly acknowledged by the chairman himself at the beginning of the evening. After graciously lauding the dancers for their annual dedication, the president concluded his address with a “And lastly, please welcome our transatlantic guest, Michael.” It was quite a shock, for me at least, and as I uncomfortably watched the sea of parishioners curiously shift in their seats to observe the newcomer, it was rather difficult to hold back the rushing blood in my face.

The unnecessary embarrassment subsided, however, as I became joyously distracted by the captivating dance routines of the company. They clogged, they skipped, they shuffled, and they even danced atop swords while executing every step with relentless precision. They were adroitly skilled in their technique and as I became mesmerized by their flawless routine and the harmonious drone of the accompanying bagpipes, I was only slightly disappointed when the dancing finally ceased. Had the interruption not been in the name of food (haggis time) I would have been equally pleased watching the dancers for the remainder of the evening.

As I said before, the haggis was led into the church hall by a piper—my seat at the table was fortuitously positioned precisely where the piper stopped, about-faced, and continued blowing while the instrument’s melodious squeals and jets of concentrated air blew straight into my face and ear drum. It was carried atop a silver tray by a lady in, perceivably, traditional attire. She placed it before the chairman and the haggis ceremony continued. The haggis was then served with “neeps” and “tatties” (swede and potatoes). I drowned my entire plate in gravy and devoured it like a starved Viking berserker.

I will conclude with the following: Give haggis a shot. It’s amazing. It’s like eating corned beef hash, ground beef, Spam, liver and onions, hot roast beef, slow-cooked pork, and minced kebab meat—all mixed together with a pleasurable gritty texture, if you can imagine that.