Burns Night (and morning)

This morning I was woken up with breakfast in bed, delivered by my husband. I actually get breakfast in bed fairly often, so am pretty lucky in that regard. My husband then told me that our boys were having an argument downstairs, an argument that only little boys could have.

"I am me."
"No, I am me."
"No, I am me!"
"NO! I am me!!" and so on.

We both laughed. Our boys argue and fight pretty frequently, so anything that makes it more amusing (and less aggravating) for us is very welcome.


Today is January 25, and this is the year I am going to do it. For years, ever since the fateful winter of 1994-95 that I spent in Edinburgh, I have wanted to start the tradition of Burns Night in my household. Not that I love Robert Burns' poetry (although some of it is nice), but I love the celebration: stand in front of a group of people and recite incomprehensible poetry, then eat haggis, neeps and tatties (which is sausage, mashed potatoes and turnips to us boring Americans) and drink whiskey until you collapse in a groggy, happy stupor.

Since our boys are still quite young, we'll probably switch out the whiskey part of it for pink milk. And we'll probably skip on the poetry reading part until at least one of our boys can actually read Scottish brogue. But this year, we will definitely be having neeps and tatties for supper. And though eating sausage made from a sheep's heart, liver and lungs and cooked in its stomach does hold some appeal, we will be opting for chicken & apple sausages instead. I have tried haggis, really I have. It was okay. I just don't think my family is ready for it yet. One thing at a time.

Although maybe we'll have a little bit of bagpipe music in the background ...