SCOTTISH GOURMET

Ode to a Haggis: Americans often tell me how proud they are of coming down from Scottish stock. They wear the kilt and can tell you what their Gaelic surnames mean (BTW NicDougall means "Daughter of a dark stranger." Beat that!) . But mention haggis, Scotland’s traditional dish, and they will disappear in a puff of disgusted expletives. Because, you know, it contains eyeballs of sheep, newt’s entrails, dust of ground wizard, and vomit of witch.  No one of sound mind would go near the stuff! Or would they? 

Let’s start with what haggis is: a sausage. When our Celtic ancestors banded together to go on a hunt, they could salt the flesh of the animal and bring it back to the village. But the offal deteriorates quickly, and so they would make up the haggis and eat it where they were. They brought oats along for this very purpose, and to that added suet and mace and nutmeg, onions, liver, heart, (in Scotland lungs, but we won’t go into that. Hell, the Germans eat fried brain!). Most cultures include offal in their diet. Americans, too, if they like liver. I am told that when the matriarchal wolf takes the best of the kill, she goes for the offal, because it is highly nutritious and digestible. So, they took all that lovely she-wolf fodder and stuffed it into some kind of skin. Traditional haggis gets stuffed into a sheep’s stomach. You boil it, you revere it, and, if it is Burns Night, on January 25^th, you sit it on a silver platter, walk it into the gathering to the birl of the pipes, and recite a nice wee poem to this “chieftain o” the puddin’ race.” A hallowed hush descends as the reciter of the night pulls out his sgian dubh knife from the top of his sock and sinks it into the beast. 

 And then, says Burns, “O what a glorious sight, warm-reekin rich!” Call me a she-wolf, call me a Scottish heathen, but, when haggis is served with a good whisky sauce, I love the stuff. 

 

Oatcakes: 

Someone was asking me lately which items of Scottish food I cannot be without. Oatcakes are one of those. In my book, Mrs. McPhealy’s American, the title character Steve has been courting local midwife George. She finally responds to him one day but is swiftly removed to a birth, leaving Steve in her tiny house. At first, he is pleased just to be among her day-to-day living, happy to fall asleep in her bed, but after several hours, he goes looking for something to eat. As he later tells her, “All I could find around here was a couple of dry placemats made out of oats.”

Perhaps you have to grow up with oatcakes to appreciate them, and perhaps if you don’t have a slab of Islay cheese atop, they are less than appealing. But it is the contrast of flavours that is important here, a nuttiness that sets of the sourness of the cheese. It is hard in America to find a really mature cheddar. What passes as “seriously mature” and only sold in specialty shops, is what a Scot would regard as just cheese. On a recent trip to my homeland, I brought back a slab of good cheese, declined to declare it at the border (good thing they didn’t have dogs!) and am eking it out in my fridge. It has an aroma the minute it emerges from its wrapping. It slices very well, falls in thin sheets of aromatic pleasure. But it asks for something to rest itself upon, and these little rounds of thinly baked oats, are just the job!  

CULLEN SKINK:

So, it sounds like something you might scrape off the bottom of your boat, but be not afraid, it is the Scottish version of fish chowder. Skink is an old word for a knuckle or hock (because that used to be the stock base rather than the current smoked fish), and Cullen is the name of a village in North East Scotland. 

This delicious soup is what you might reach for on one of those afternoons Scotland is famous for: low hanging cloud, mist hovering over hillsides of bracken, intermittent rain. It's July, but you still might need to stoke up that fire in the hearth. You might be inspired to throw together leeks, onions, potatoes, in a creamy broth, and at the last minute add a few pieces of smoked haddock. I'd take a girdle scone with that with lashings of butter. For the body and soul, it's just what the doctor ordered! 

SHORTBREAD:

To a Scot, shortbread is a universally appreciated delicacy. So, when I recently offered some to an American guest and they demurred, it was all I could do to stop the word Sacrilege!! escape from my lips. Scotland has made a fair commodity of this little confection, selling 170 million pounds worth of the stuff per annum. The main retailer these days is Walkers from the highland town of Aberlour. These days, you can find shortbread as far afield as America. And rightly so, for what could improve an afternoon more than a good cup of tea and a few rich, buttery, crumbly “petticoat tails,” or, in a dream scenario, a plate of the homemade variety. Made only of flour, butter and sugar, what could go wrong? 

 

A modern variation of this ancient recipe caters even more to the Scots' sweet tooth: Millionaire’s shortbread.

Who could turn their nose up at this? For me, it's a hill I would be willing to die on.