Saturday night, a couple of days late, P, B and J laid on a fabulous Burn’s night supper. I was not the only Englishman there, but I was the only Englishman in a kilt. Jen’s tartan offering was a necklace cunningly crafted from paperclips and tartan printouts. She made one for Kerry too. Paul was in his full Scots regalia, Jen’s ginger hair was considered suitably Scottish and everybody else made do with tartan scarves.
We ate cock a leekie soup, we addressed the (exploded) haggis, we toasted the haggis with fine single malts and we ate the haggis with neeps and tatties and the Canadian addition of green beans.
I can honestly say it was the best haggis I’ve ever tasted, but it’s only the third one I’ve ever tasted. It had arrived by bus from an Ontarionianal Scots enclave, so we knew it was going to be good.
The delicious meal was followed by much whiskey drinking and conversations about cars (the choice between a Lexus or a Cadillac; I tried to be polite), Montreal (it’s cold, too cold), Vancouver (it’s rainy, too rainy), Justin Timberlake (he’s the new Madonna apparently) and the Oscars.