Haggis. It’s a Scottish thing, probably originally a Roman thing brought to the British Isles and still enjoyed there (kinda). It’s one of those love-or-hate-type deals, and I definitely fall into the former category. I may blog on bread and pastry but I’m a carnivore to my very core. I’m also a Scotsman by heritage (remind me to show you the Pastry clan tartan some time). In a nutshell a haggis is the ground heart, liver and lungs of a sheep, mixed with fat, onions, and barley and/or oats, boiled in a sheep’s stomach. It is rich, rich, rich. A few heaping spoonfuls will last a hearty Highlander all the live long day, making it the heart and soul (or liver, or lungs) of both utility and thrift (key Scottish virtues).
Delicious as it is (especially served with turnips and potatoes) most Scots prefer not to confess the truth about the contents of haggis to foreigners. Tough to blame them, really. Instead they usually spin a yarn about the haggis being a small oblong animal, not unlike a hedgehog, with long legs on one side of its body that makes it perfectly adapted for running clockwise around hilltops. Haggis is caught by frightening it into attempting to run counterclockwise, at which point it tips over and rolls downhill where men with nets are waiting. You’d be amazed at how many people fall for that one. Though I certainly didn’t. Not for a second.