I have nothing more to add about the old country than what I have already said. I read these threads and enjoy the aminals and food chat. Moar of that please.
I was in S&M but they ran out of haggis. So I did my best. Cooked a slab of yellow sticker ork stuffing, and stirred it into gnocchi (white sauce with all posh cheddar, caramelised onions and pesto), served with black pudding.
Pretty decent, for complete rando yellow sticker cupboard surprise.
It is whisky oclock, right?
Burns night. This is my favourite notBurns pome
The Puddock
John M. Caie
A puddock sat by the lochan’s brim,
An’ he thocht there was never a puddock like him.
He sat on his hurdies, he waggled his legs,
An’ cockit his heid as he glowered throu’ the seggs.
The bigsy wee cratur’ was feelin’ that prood,
He gapit his mou’ an’ he croakit oot lood:
“Gin ye’d a’ like tae see a richt puddock,” quo’ he,
“Ye’ll never, I’ll sweer, get a better nor me.
I’ve fem’lies an’ wives an’ a weel-plenished hame,
Wi’ drink for my thrapple an’ meat for my wame.
The lasses aye thocht me a fine strappin’ chiel,
An’ I ken I’m a rale bonny singer as weel.
I’m nae gaun tae blaw, but th’ truth I maun tell-
I believe I’m the verra MacPuddock himsel’.” …
A heron was hungry an’ needin’ tae sup,
Sae he nabbit th’ puddock and gollup’t him up;
Syne runkled his feathers: “A peer thing,” quo’ he,
“But – puddocks is nae fat they eesed tae be.”