This article is taken from the December/January 2023 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Right now we’re offering five issues for just £10.

---

I am peering into a sheep’s entrails, not in search of an augury but in hope of a haggis. Admittedly, the traditional dish is revolting: dark brown mounds of tiny pellets, flecked with bits of beige and diabolised with too much pepper, presumably in order to mask the awfulness of the offal.

The dollops — or “hurdies”, as Burns might scatologically say — of potato and swede are typically waterlogged, mashed to a pulp, and as pallid as sick-room distemper. The only contrast is superficial: potatoes lurk under a matt surface, while swedes have a slick iridescence and sometimes exude, like a leak from an incontinence pad, the faintly tinted liquid in which they were boiled. It’s not just the trencher that groans.

Nevertheless, my revulsion from haggis is less than from humbug. When Christmas crucifies food columnists, I look for other rites to feast. St Andrew’s Day helps to launch Advent. Burns Night pipes the festive season towards its close. I hope Scots and their guests or imitators will have haggis, or something haggis-like, to toast with a dram, but I want to devise a version that is palatable.

I hope Scots and their guests or imitators will have haggis to toast with a dram, but I want to devise a version that is palatable

A Spanish dabbler in haggis may seem as cloud-born as the Lancashire toreador, but my home region is called Galicia for the same reason as that for which Galloway is Galloway or Gaelic Gaelic. And most pastoralists’ cuisines have their own cognates of the Puddin’ race. I don’t feel as incongruous as my beloved old tutor looked annually on St Andrew’s Day. He was small, tubby, and Jewish, and had rarely been to Scotland except on holiday; but, having served in the Black Watch during the war, he donned his kilt in honour of the saltire.

A deconstructionist chef (from whom saints preserve us) or St Thomas Aquinas, maybe, would begin the quest for a palatable haggis by asking, “What is its essence?” That is to say, what makes it especially Scottish, apart from the pibrochs and plaid that Burns night evokes? Obviously it is not the offal: every culture that stuffs the guts of kine uses the same sort of perishable and indigestible matter. The Scotchness is in the oats.

It is hard to contemplate an oat without recalling Dr Johnson’s jibe: that a food fit for horses in England sustains humans in Scotland. But oats are admirable absorbers of fat: a crust of them works wonders with a fat fish. They are good for stuffing something more inviting than a sheep’s belly.

The obvious upgrade is to breast of lamb: its richness off sets oatmeal perfectly. It roasts divinely. Its crisp carapace contrasts in texture both with the filling and with root vegetables, such as represent right tradition and repel wintry chills. One portion goes into the oven for each diner; so service is simplified for a big dinner party. And with unctuous roast lamb, whisky is as good as wine.

Where I live in the United States, compromise on the contents of the stuffing is inevitable, because some authorities literally condemn forms of offal as dangerous substances. You can poison people with marijuana or moonshine, but don’t try to sell a sheep’s pluck this side of the border.

The obvious upgrade is to breast of lamb: its richness off sets oatmeal perfectly

I suggest, therefore, acquiring whatever ovine innards one can get: kidneys and tongues are nearly always easy to obtain east of the Atlantic or south of the Rio Grande, whereas the hearts and lungs that fill a true haggis may elude shoppers. Simmered long and lingeringly, finely minced and seasoned — with caraway, marjoram, a few fennel seeds or shreds of rosemary and a small pinch of cayenne — the ingredients are ready to combine with rolled oats or coarse oatmeal. the oats are best left raw: they have a fair amount of fat to absorb. The stuffing has to bind. The usual adhesives of water, suet or egg spoil the dish.

Therefore, the ideal solution is a solution: of honey slightly diluted in whisky. Let “dews distil like amber beads”. Rubbing with salt equips the rolled, stuff ed breasts for the oven. I like to stud them with cloves, which go well with everything else.

At the risk of outraging any Scot still reading, I proscribe tatties and neeps, at least in the traditional mashed form. My Scots dictionary says that “neep” nowadays commonly signifies a swede. Originally, however, it was obviously a turnip, which, roasted separately in small segments with olive oil, is the ideal garnish. “Clap in your walie nieve a blade.” Burns’s grave will heave, but you may hear a ghostly skirl.