The Full Scottish

You cannot speak of bad British food without mentioning haggis. It’s all the rage over here and comedians the world over mention haggis when speaking of all things horrible. It wasn’t something I was going to seek out but it did cause a little curiosity, like small pox. And without much warning, there it was. Our gracious hosts in Edinburgh, Scotland told me that if I wanted the full Scottish experience, I needed to eat some haggis and something to do with not wearing underwear but the accent was difficult to understand. As luck would have it he just happened to serve it as a breakfast option. Boy howdy!

I slept well the evening before in spite of being given this warning. In fact, I was actually looking forward to it. Our bed and breakfast host seated us at our table and asked, “Are you willing to try some haggis on the side this morning?” I bravely said, “Yes!” I knew he was just easing me into it. Sheri, on the other hand, was completely convinced that haggis was made primarily from sheep brains. Since that was the grossest thing she could think of to eat, and since the countryside was filled with sheep, and since they had to figure out some way to get rid of sheep brains after making blankets and mutton, brain just seemed like the logical main ingredient in haggis.

It arrived with my full English breakfast, on the side, and on a cute little Scottish plate. My wife decided it was a cute little Scottish plate. I determined it was only Scottish because we were in Scotland. But I digress. It came in a small mound and it looked like a pile of finely-grained dark brown hash. It was highly aromatic, being filled with spices and some kind of grain. Although the smell was delightful, I was on alert because I knew the only reason to put that much spice in something was because it tasted like crap. I was hoping my reasoning was faulty, as my wife constantly informs me it is.

I took a fork of the dark brown crumbly material and lightly placed it in my mouth. My brain was on alert to quell any gag reflex that might manifest itself. On their own, my eyes searched for an appropriate place to projectile vomit. But that never happened because I actually liked it. Spices only seemed to compliment the flavor of the haggis, not cover it up. I think haggis is made from barley and other things I refuse to Google just in case it's made from ground children. Overall, I found it delicious. Sheri was still thinking it was sheep brain so the entire day roaming around Edinburgh, she kept checking me for signs of mad cow. Those symptoms included mooing in gift shops, eating royal shrubbery, and pooping in the street. These are things I've always done without medical diagnosis.

The next morning I decided to go for the full Scottish breakfast. This included a giant plate of haggis topped off with a soft fried egg and toast. It was wonderful. And Sheri even tried a little. That day roaming the gift shops the ladies found haggis whistles. The mythical haggis could be lured out of its lair with the toot of the whistle, thus allowing for a quick dispatch and a delightful breakfast experience. Think of the haggis whistle as the American equivalent to the pillowcase when hunting for snipe at summer camp.

I felt very Scottish that day and was even tempted to purchase a kilt. But the $600 price tag for a real one made me think twice. And there was no way I was buying a set of bagpipes. The kilt didn’t even come with underwear. Don’t they get cold?