I am, as I may have mentioned, in Scotland -- the home of haggis and bagpipes. For some inexplicable reason, our culture has got a down on bagpipes and haggis. We are taught from an early age to dislike and despise the music of the one and the flavor of the other. And yet . . .
And yet, I love 'em both. On Saturday, after settling into our flat on Old Tollbooth Wynd, we walked the half-block up to the Royal Mile and discovered that pipe bands were marching down the road, wave after wave of them, hundreds upon hundreds of bagpipes playing. It was glorious.
"Ew!" people say when I mention haggis. "How can you eat that stuff?" And then, upon questioning, it turns out that they've never tried it themselves and have no idea what it tastes like.
So I tell them that it's just scrapple, only made with oats rather than corn. At which point they make the same disgusted noises before admitting that they've never tried scrapple either.
Their loss. Last night at Wedgwood, which is only a block or two from our flat, I had the venison and venison haggis plate. The joy I felt afterwards still lingers.
And I'm still pigging out on plays...
Four yesterday. More today. If I find the time I may blog about them yet.