Putting the "hog" in "Hogmanay"

I have to say, monshu has outdone himself again. Normally our New Year's is a modest little affair, not least of all because, between the exposure and the exhaustion, going home for Christmas almost always leads to some hideous cold for me. I've dodged that bullet for a couple years running, however, so we decided to take the risk. Apparently, monshu never got over not being around to make a proper Thanksgiving dinner, so he decided to go all out and produce a Scottish-style buffet.

Unfortunately, it's not easy to find Scottish cheeses in the US, so we had to make do with Irish and English substitutes that have something of the same character. He more than made up for this by making his own quince paste from fresh quinces, which turned out better than any membrillo I've had anywhere. Scottish smoked salmon, however, is better exported than cheese, so at least we had that note of authenticity, albeit in the form of a nontraditional spread.

The mushroom and black truffle quiche was extraordinary and didn't survive the night. Neither did the venison tenderloin, which had been marinated in wine, barded in bacon, and sliced and served with a Cumberland sauce. (It should come as no surprise to anyone that I couldn't bear to follow the example of those wasteful French and discard the barding; instead, I crisped it up and sprinkled it on the remaining quiche. monshu made a bacon sandwich for his waking-from-a-nap snack and we're saving the rest to improve side dishes like Brussel sprouts.)

The neeps and tatties came out better this time than before; the GWO decided he didn't like the stringiness of that recipe and pureed the swedes down to a finer texture before adding the butter and cream. But the pièce de resistance was the homemade haggis. Sadly, we couldn't get a sheep's stomach or pluck, but we made do with calves' heart and liver. (For reasons mysterious to me, since I've eaten it in Canada before, you can't buy animal lung for human consumption in the USA.)

Haggis is the ultimate proof of the adage "How do you know you don't like it if you've never even tried it?" Anyone who hasn't eaten it should STFUA for now and for all time. Using whole oats gives it a texture quite unlike that of oatmeal, and the spicing makes it far more interesting than the simple ingredient list would lead one to expect. I personally love heart and don't understand why anyone has a problem with it--it's solid muscle, which is all meat is. Besides, it was chopped so finely that it was difficult to distinguish from the ground lamb anyway.

The group also did more damage to the black bun then I'd anticipated, leaving monshu exactly half of an enormous round to take in to the office today. On the other hand, I rather foresaw the toll taken on the flight of Islay Scotches. Our guests brought a bottle of mild lowland Scotch (Auchentoshan), which took some of the pressure off our offerings and left us with roughly half of what we started with. IIRC, the Bowmore was the most popular followed closely by Bruichladdich; Laphroaig, as you might expect, was too overpowering for some of those present.

By mid-afternoon, monshu had been up for twelve straight hours, so we gently edged our guests out of the living room and laid him out for a two-hour restorative nap. There was a moment there with the rooms flooded with the light of the setting sun, my belly full of food and my head swimming from the alcohol, and my man sprawled out on the bed like a felled giant where I openly wondered if I could stand much more contentment.

(no subject)

So is assuming that the "bahn mi" mentioned prominently in a local eatery's print ad probably aren't up to the standards of the bánh mì I get on Argyle a reasonable inference from meagre data or just an especially egregious instance of linguification?