In the run up to Burns Night I overbought haggis. At first I couldn’t find a big one so I bought two small ones and then I did find a big one so I bought that as well, and that was the one I cooked.
The packaging said it served ten, and since there were only four of us at my humble Burns Night shindgig, I had some leftover. As with so many things, not least Christmas turkey, and quite a few roasts, the leftovers sometimes seem better than the thing itself.
So I made a haggis shepherds’ pie, and it was a blast
And then last week, stuck for something for dinner, I defrosted one of the small haggis’s which had been lurking in the freezer, That was fine but again I had some leftovers and made a haggis breakfast scramble, which was ok but not fantastic.
Anyway as I was doing all this kept thinking about the great Calvin Trillin’s fantastically surreal line: “The most remarkable thing about my mother is that for thirty years she served the family nothing but leftovers. The original meal has never been found.”
Growing up in the Nicholson household we only ever had leftovers on Mondays, which were the remains of the Sunday roast. My mother wasn’t good at roasting meat - she kind of boiled it in the oven. She’d probably have done better with a haggis.
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