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Stabbing haggis and frostbite As I perused my calendar, I realized yesterday was January 25, Robbie Burns Day, a special day for every red-blooded Scot. Yup, it's that day we make a haggis (by tossing a plethora of ingredients into a sheep's stomach, then boiling it until it's edible) then someone recites some poetry by Scotland's favourite son-- Robert Burns-- before stabbing the haggis to death. Every time I think of Robbie Burns, I'm taken back about 20 years, when my mother decided to host a family Robbie Burns supper. Over the years, I'd photographed several Burns' suppers, and was quite familiar with all the traditions-- the address to the Haggis, and all those ceremonial things that make the dinner what it is. And in a moment of weakness, I agreed to recite the address to the Haggis for my mother. I got right into it-- even borrowed a kilt for the celebration, unknown to the rest of my family. It was a crisp, cold January day (and that's significant) as I scurried across the yard to Mom and Dad's place. Wow, when that cold wind gusted up under my kilt, I truly think I went cross-eyed. It's been said January 25 is usually THE coldest day of the ear. I think it's only perceived as the coldest one-- simply cuz it's Robbie Burns Day, and the kilts come out. Predictably, all my family asked what was worn under my kilt. I was ready, replying with, "Nothing's worn, it's all in good repair." In retrospect, I could have replied `frostbite'. Mom had gone to great lengths to create a haggis and I had to admit, when it emerged steaming from the oven, it looked and smelled pretty genuine. I'd bought a recording of Scottish pipe music, and Mom and I marched into the dining room to the squeal of pipes, the haggis on a silver tray. My kids and nephews wondered if I'd lost my mind as I started reciting Burns' poem (virtually impossible to read, let alone memorize). I read: Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Ted Brown Great Chieftan o' the Puddin-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang 's my arm. It wasn't easy enunciating the words, and to be honest, I wasn't even sure what I was saying. But I carried on, and the kids humoured Mom and I, waiting patiently for their beef dinner. I got to the part where I was to plunge the knife into the haggis and at a fever pitch, I proclaimed: "Trenching your gushing entrails bright Like onie ditch; And then, 0 what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich!" I had one small problem. Seems the `membrane' Mom used to hold the haggis together was waaay too tough. The local butcher was out of sheeps' stomachs that week. I hacked through it in true barbaric highland fashion, (Rob Roy would have been proud of me) completing the cultural experience as the kids tasted haggis, for the first-- and likely last-- time. I learned a lot that day. I could say there was a certain magic celebrating the age-old Scottish custom-- (too bad my background is Irish). I could say the kids were richer by experiencing haggis first-hand. (They might disagree.) And I certainly pleased my mother (no doubt). But they weren't my greatest revelations. Nope, my greatest discovery was learning the value of wearing long pants in the dead of winter. (Ted Brown can be reached at tbrown@independentfreepress.com)