Haggis and Single Malt Scotch

Happy belated New Year! It usually takes me until the tail end of January to reevaluate the many promises I made to myself, so I thought it would be fun to share some resolutions with you. Aside from slipping into a size 7 wedding dress by October, my only real goal for 2011 is to be more courageous in my day-to-day life.

Thanks to a polite suggestion from my mother, I found myself at the annual Robert Burns supper held in Andover about two weeks ago. Though she currently lives in Florida, my mother is an expert at finding activities for me to participate in. This particular activity was a tribute to the Scottish poet’s birthday, which requires a toast with haggis and scotch whiskey.
To be fair, the haggis was more of an appetizer than a “double-dog dare,” but I should mention that I have something of a food phobia and this seemed like a pretty good opportunity to try something new.

Because I grew up in a British household, I came to appreciate predictable food. Yes, I fully intend to contribute to that stereotype. The most exotic meals in my home were either baked beans on toast with cheese (aka Dad’s specialty) or cottage pie. There was never a moment when I couldn’t identify something on my plate and I felt a tremendous sense of comfort in that fact.

The haggis sat before me on the table, a large round sausage between a basket of Saltines and a block of cheese. A slice in the top of the casing revealed a protruding mash of the sheep’s most vitally necessary organs, minced with oatmeal, fat, salt, and stock. Traditionally it would be simmered and served in the animal’s stomach, but I thought better not to ask if it was the “real deal” or not, as it looked authentic enough to me. I scooped some up on a cracker and placed the whole thing in my mouth. I always feel kind of brave when I allow a strange food to touch my taste buds; as if the haggis might actually be a piece of dynamite in disguise as ground up sheep parts. I began to chew. Much to my astonishment, my mouth did not explode. It had a nutty, mild pâté-like flavor, with only the faintest hint of liver. Perhaps you’re wondering why a food phobic knows the flavor of liver, in which case I will say that the secret to making a good impression on your future mother-in-law is to eat whatever she puts in front of you and to carry lots of napkins. I did find the sticky texture of the haggis to be somewhat distracting, but the dry cracker probably contributed to that somewhat.

I sipped the dram of scotch. My online research had suggested that by swirling it around in my mouth, I would experience the “smoothness” of it. I must have done it wrong. I didn’t taste citrus or chocolate, but I did taste iodine. I use an antiseptic called TCP, Trichlorophenylmethyliodosalicyl, whenever I have a sore throat or an injury of any sort. It works wonders, but smells and tastes like concentrated medicine cabinet. I think it must be made in hell, next door to the single malt scotch distillery. Of course I’m kidding; one is made in Scotland and the other in France. I’m not sure which I’m slamming there, but I’ll let you figure that one out. I know I have made scotch sound like delicious mouthwash, but you should refrain from drinking it if you’re under 21.

I expect that any minute now, kilted mercenaries will appear at my door, drag me outside and beat me to death with a bottle of Glenmorangie. I can live with that chance, because this column is about trying new things and conquering fears. I can happily say that I have conquered haggis. The rematch with the scotch may come at a later date, somewhere between sushi and sky diving. I’ll keep you posted.