In praise of poets and exotic food

When you get down to the national level, there are some mighty odd holidays in this world.

If I asked you who would set aside a night to revere a poet who'd been dead for hundreds of years, a strange culinary item that most people won't eat once they know what's in it and the poem the first wrote in honour of the second ... which nationality would you suspect? Without advance knowledge, you'd probably opt for the French. Baudelaire and the andouillette sausage? Or maybe the Italians. Did Dante mention coratella d'agnello (lamb's intestines) in the Inferno?

Any of you with prior experience and a glance at the calendar, however, will know that it's time to talk about Burns Night.

For the uninitiated:
Robert Burns is the most iconic of Scots scribes. He lived in the second half of the 18th century and wrote in native lowland Scots, making him unique in a nation where most of the famous writers opted for English. Even if you think don't know him, you do. You've sung "auld lang syne" at New Year's Eve and probably muttered something about "the best laid plans of mice and men". Both phrases come to you via Burns' pen. On the 25th January, in celebration of Burns' birth in 1759, Scots around the world host dinners in celebration. There's a lot of variety in the running order but several things are essential: you must eat haggis, neeps and tatties, someone must read Burns' address to a haggis and you need a glass (or more) of fine single malt to toast the great man and your hosts.

I was toasting my friend Iain Halpin this year. The company, food and drink in his Shepherd's Bush kitchen was just as good as anything a laird could have laid on in his highland castle. Iain was suitably kilted and read the address with proper Scots inflection. A bit like Shakespeare, you can understand Burns much better when someone comfortable with the lingo speaks it to you. Burns' address to the haggis is wonderfully musical, and though you're unlikely to understand all of it, the assertion that brawny, haggis-fed Scots boys make the earth tremble with their powerful tread is sure to bring a smile to your face. As will the bit during the poem when your host is supposed to stab the haggis with fervour. (Iain's skillful attack reminded me of just how good he once was as a violent psychopath at one of my murder mystery parties.)

And the haggis? Imported from a Scots butcher, organic, very tasty. The recipe calls for chopped up lungs, liver, and other less prime cuts of meat, mixed with lots of fat and oatmeal. Then boiled in a sheep's stomach. It sounds absolutely vile. It looks even worse: a wobbling balloon of grey, from which a black mass speckled with white surges when your host does the ceremonial stab. But a good haggis is surprisingly tasty. Meaty, rich, practically melts on the tongue. The glass of Balvenie whisky on the side was a perfect complement. I could have drunk a lot more, but I was driving to this celebration, so kept all things in moderation.

The Scots can claim a lot of success in this world. In fact, there's a book about that makes the case we owe them for most of modern Western civilisation. I don't deny the inventions, the political theory, the financial magnates, the great explorers. Every January, however, all that takes a back seat to poetry, strange food and a nice little dram.