Burns Supper: Eating the Offal Stuff

bud in harpAs I’m Scottish, many of our bookstore events have a Celtic theme: the St. Patrick’s Day ceilidh dance in March; a celebration of St. Andrew’s Day just before Thanksgiving; welcoming the New Year with a Hogmanay party into the ‘wee sma’ hours.

Don't get the idea that it's all drinking. There are just a lot of toasts... Chris led the Immortal Memory toast.

Don’t get the idea that it’s all drinking. There are just a lot of toasts… Chris led the Immortal Memory toast.

But the highlight of our Scots calendar is the Burns Supper we hold at the end of January. In common with Scots around the world we host a traditional observance of the birthday of National Bard Robert (Rabbie) Burns.

And the highlight of this night is haggis.

Jodi happens to be a vegetarian...

Jodi happens to be a vegetarian…

Ah, haggis! That mixture of oats, blood and bits of sheep that normally get thrown away but Scots keep and consume with enthusiasm. I love haggis–although for some strange reason Wendy isn’t quite as enthusiastic as me. I’ve had many adventures over the years involving haggis, including once escorting (ok, smuggling) an enormous one through customs to a British consulate Burns Supper in Istanbul.

David reciting the Ode to the Haggis. Note knife in left hand.

David reciting the Ode to the Haggis. Note knife.

This event has always been packed out at the bookstore, and is the main reason we put castors under some of our bookshelves, so they can be moved to create extra space. We serve the traditional ‘champit tatties’ (mashed potatoes) and ‘bashed neeps’ (mashed rutabagas) alongside the haggis, not to mention Cranachan (whipped cream with honey and whisky, topped with toasted oats). Last year, a woman licked her Cranachan plate when she discovered the serving bowl was empty.bells with haggis

The haggis is piped in by our friend Randy and is handed ‘round the assembled company—some of whom look rather dubious as it passes from their hands—while the ‘Ode to a Haggis’ is recited. After the food, we have ‘The Immortal Memory’, a few Burns songs and stories from Wendy and me, and the hilarious Toast to and Response from the lassies. (Think Simon Cowell meets Hilary Clinton in a battle of the sexes.)

Jack delivers a Burns song

Jack delivers a Burns song

It’s a fun night, and to me the highlight of our events year. ‘Course, I would think so, being Scottish, but in addition to loving it for itself, I delight in the facial expressions of Americans trying haggis for the first time. And I have wee drams ready for those who look as though they’ve swallowed something offal. Heh heh. Get it? Offal?

For those interested, Wendy and I will do two Burns Suppers this year: at our bookstore Jan. 24th, and the weekend of 25th/26th Jan. at Hyltons Performing Arts Center in Manassas, VA, as part of their Highlands Festival.

toast to lassies

Owen Meany in Love (or something like it)

We foster a lot of cats here at Tales of the Lonesome Pine, and this month we took in a teen mom and her three infants. The babies (Clyde Edgerton, Anne River Siddons, and Silas House) are thriving, and Tallulah (the mom) is putting on weight and getting a healthy shine back into her beautiful dark fur. She has russet undertones to her smoky brownness, and a very warm personality. As Jack said, “Easy to see why the boys went for her, eh?”IMG_3529

Indeed it is.

Tallulah’s a good mother, but even the Supermoms want some off-duty time. So the other day, when I opened the nursery door, she made a break for it–and ran straight into Owen Meany’s chest.

Owen Meany is our cheerful adolescent kitten. We’re not sure if he’s an eejit, or an evil genius; it’s amazing how he’s carved his place into the bookshop staff hierarchy in just six short months. For instance, he’s made friends with ValKyttie (something almost no one can do) and she lets him finish her morning snack right off her plate. Nobody else tries that, believe me.

Owen is also a big boy; think defensive lineman. So when Tallulah fell into his arms, he wasn’t even winded–but he was bowled over.

Nose to nose the pair gasped, Tallulah against Owen’s massive chest in a classic B-movie scene, gazing up at him from beneath long black lashes as he stared down in besotted amazement. Then Tallulah backed coyly into her nursery, while Owen, blinking, gazed at the closing door.

He looked up at me, golden eyes round and glassy. “Who? Was? That?

Well, it was inevitable. What did I think was going to happen when the linebacker met the homecoming queen? He’s in love. Or something very like it.

Owen now spends a lot of time passing by the nursery door in an overly casual way–“just out for a stroll, oh look, how did I happen to get here?”–listening in case his beloved wants anything. Last night I caught him sitting atop the phone directory, open to florists. We’re expecting a catnip bouquet delivery any moment.

I’ve tried to explain to him that she’s not staying, there’s no point in getting his heart broken, that she’s got kids and those relationships can be complicated for a boy just starting to date….

owen writing poetryBut he’s writing her poetry. We found him with this pen, looking pensive. I’m sure it will end in tears. There’s that little matter of Owen’s having been neutered.

Still, the course of true love never did run smooth.