Wednesday, 20 January 2010
Wednesday Night Project 200110 – Burns Night Supper 25-01-2010.
Celebrating Robert Burns
Burns Night, at its best, is a time to be hopeful, striking a balance between life's joys and sorrows. If Shakespeare's poetry scales the heights of poetic achievement, Robert Burns' poetry sweeps the broad rolling plain of common humanity, with all its triumphs and disasters. He writes about hope, courage and the joy of being alive in a world of terror, darkness and fear.
Burns Night recipes
If you're making your own haggis, you'll have to start preparation a day in advance. For a variation on the Bashed neeps, you can make Orkney clapshot (which is often served with haggis). Mix the mashed seasoned swede with an equal quantity of mashed potato and beat well until smooth. This mixture can be put into a pie or gratin dish, thickly covered with grated cheddar cheese and baked in the oven, or under the grill, until browned.
Click here for my own vegetarian haggis recipe.
Click here to make your own haggis.
Click here for a bashed neeps recipe.
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi perfect sconner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit:
Thro bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.
Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!