A fine wee Haggis

It's Burns' Night tonight, the celebration of Scotland's favourite son, the poet Robbie Burns, and traditionally the feast is made with the "Great chieftain O the puddin'race!" which is the haggis. Frankly, one needs a good reason to eat it, even with plenty of anaesthetising whisky although the vegan in me applauds the use of the offal. If you're going to kill an animal to eat, you shouldn't waste a scrap of it.

Last year I made our celebration meal from scratch (you can see it here) and it was easy enough, but we failed to flush a fresh haggis out of the heather and had to make do with a frozen one this year. Macsween have cornered the vegan retail market for this oatmeal based savoury pudding and their offering is reliable and pleasant.



The traditional accompaniments are the hardy swede, which is often known as a "turnip" in Scotland and pronounced as 'neeps and a huge steaming mound of mashed potatoes.



A damn fine gravy helps everything go down so I made a caramelised onion and red wine sauce to douse the beast in.

Plug your ears, we're going to pipe in the pudding!



The haggis is already carved and in the centre, the very last portion of last year's effort, recovered from the freezer and added for contrast. A thrifty and economical race, the Scottish.



Enjoy your meal!

And this is one of the Bard's best, slightly more appropriate for a vegan blog than the usual Address to a Haggis often declaimed this night.

To a Mouse.

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murdering pattle.

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth born companion
An' fellow mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't.

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's win's ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld.

But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou are blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!