Let me go ahead and relieve your troubled minds- I survived it.
But also let me go ahead and warn you- the following pictures are graphic.
Oh yeah, Americans. There she is. You don’t know what haggis is, you say? Well, I’m just gonna let you read up on the Wikipedia page for haggis. Cause there are some things that I just can’t type.
I had already warned James [the chef extraordinaire] about you people and your need for photographs, so he was not ruffled as I walked through his kitchen and took pictures around his masterpieces.
I did manage to take a picture the exact moment that James stabbed the haggis. *shudder* It still makes me feel weird, the whole thing. But the team loved it. There was lots of cheers and laughter and one small whimper. [No need to identify the source of that whimper. Ahem.]
So here’s my plate starting at the fork and going clockwise – tatties [mashed potatoes], haggis [mashed other things], minced meat [ground beef], and neeps [yeah, I don’t know- looks like sweet potatoes, tastes like cauliflower? I think it is a turnip or something]. And a tall glass of IRN BRU.
And here I am, living without fear, having my first bite of haggis…
And you know what? It was not bad at all. I mean, a certain friend of mine [who I am SUPER close to outing on this one but I won’t] said that haggis tasted like cat food, so it was mind over matter those first few bites. But then it was really pretty good.
And the tatties. Good gracious. I told James he cooked potatoes like my grandmother. In fact, I think I said, “You cook like an old southern woman…. which is a total compliment.”
I saw the concern on his face. That’s why I said that last part.
Then I did this….
While James made this….
And I said, “Leisa, how is your dessert and by the way, what is this beautiful work of culinary art that we are holding?” [I felt very enthusiastic about the dessert because see, it wasn’t haggis.]
It’s called Cranachan. It’s way good. Like, probably really bad for you good. Here is the recipe.
Raspberries? Honey? DOUBLE whipped cream? Toasted oats and a splash of whiskey?
I’m not mad about that. Not mad about that at all.
So I did what any red-blooded American would do.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the night I ate a Burns Supper in Edinburgh.
[Curtsy, exit stage left.]
[See y’all Monday.]