DIARY
Is
poutine the new haggis?
by
Robert LaFrance
I am risking my life in this
Scottish-obsessed household by making a disparaging comment about haggis
(devil’s cake) and the same thing goes for any bad adjectives referring to
poutine, but luckily I am on this side of the international border and can’t
get deported for breathing. However, there are those who think haggis and
poutine are the twin apexes of culinary delight; then again some people eat
ants.
Haggis, in case you didn’t know, is
the national dish of Scotland. That’s the country in which bagpipes is the
national musical instrument. Poutine is the national dish of Quebec.
That Scottish ‘food’ is made from
the innards of sheep or ducks (I can’t remember which) and contains anything
from suet to “sheep’s pluck” to onion and possibly the skin of aarvarks and is
incased in a sheep’s stomach; poutine, popular with many, is made from grease
covered with grease with more grease inside if needed.
I have never had the nerve to try
poutine, but under family pressure (if you know what I mean) I once took a bite
of haggis. Note the word ‘once’.
This quote is from an E. B. White
book of essays. “The Epicurean Circle of London recently declared that the
Scottish national dish haggis is the most horrible culinary concoction in
existence in the 20th century.” I think we can extrapolate that to
the 21st century, can’t we?
Amazing what people do their bodies.
I fell off a Ferris wheel once and would still prefer that experience to eating
a saucer full of haggis or poutine. That must be why the Scots and Quebeckers
are so tough; anybody who can ingest haggis and poutine can conquer the world.
***********************
On another subject, I recently
visited the Hendersons (or was it the Andersons?) and was amazed at what I saw
in their bathroom. Nothing scatological or anything, but I refer to the number
and names of some of the shampoos and things like that.
It’s none of my business I know, but
if I stuck to things that are only my business I wouldn’t be a hard-hitting
investigative journalist. (“You’re not,” said Flug, who had been reading over
my shoulder.)
One of the items in the Hendersons’
bathroom was something called Dove For Sensitive Skin. Having known the family
for a long time, I can safely surmise that none of them has sensitive skin.
More like hide if you ask me.
Then there was something called Down
Under natural’s, a conditioner for all hair types. I have no idea and can’t
guess why the word natural’s has an apostrophe or why it doesn’t start with a
capital letter.
A plastic container called Aveeno
Active Naturals goes on to say that it is a ‘Skin brightening daily scrub’.
Like the stuff from Down Under, I can’t imagine how a material out of a plastic
container can use the word ‘naturals’, but I suppose with fraud now rampant,
it’s only natural.
The last one I’ll mention by name is
Alpen Secrets goat milk body wash. Do goats wash with this? It wasn’t clear,
but the container does have inside something call Argan Oil. This, I would say,
is vital if one wants to remain beautiful.
This all takes me back to the 1950s,
when my mother forced me to take a bath every Saturday evening before bed (it
would be a little inconvenient AFTER bed). The old galvanized tub hung in the
closet until after supper, usually beans) on Saturday and then it emerged. I
really don’t think they thought that through, but I did.
**********************
I’m not sure if I should report
this, but a couple of my neighbours are in the midst of a Hatfield-McCoy type
of feud. No shooting, but you never know with those city types. They both moved
here from Jemseg and, after years of bad feeling there – they had side-by-side
houses – they each bought a house here in the Scotch Colony between Bon Accord
and Upper Kintore. Harry says he lives in Upper Kintore and Solly says he lives
in Bon Accord. I happen to know that both their houses are officially in the
Leonard Colony suburb of Trout Brook West, but I have never bothered to tell
them.
The first sign of problem after they
settled in this area occurred when Solly painted his house robin-egg blue.
Within a week Harry did too. Then Solly painted his house a sort of peach,
followed a week later by Harry. This could have gone on forever, but I told
Solly about the paint colour called Zealand Yellow. It goes on yellow, but
within a week it turns a brilliant red. Of course Harry had painted his house
yellow and it stayed that way.
Bottom line: They finally called a
truce, and Ferney’s Paint Store filed for bankruptcy. People sure do strange
things, but that’s what keeps the economy humming.-end-
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