Celebrating Robbie Burns Day

Melissa and I had been invited to a small party by my Scottish Dean (Ta!) and her husband to celebrate Robert Burns Day, a very famous and celebrated Scottish poet from the mid-1700s. Every year they throw this soirée with another couple (Scot and American) and this year it would be at their place. You probably think you’ve never heard of him but I’m guessing one of his pieces is one of the top three songs that most Americans know. First being ‘Happy Birthday,’ followed by the ‘Star Spangled Banner’ (which many don’t know all the words too anyway) and then the song played every New Year’s Eve at midnight, ‘Auld Lang Syne’ by Robert Burns.

Unfortunately, early during the day of the party, Melissa had two cups of a ‘laxative tea’ which contains the plant senna that acts as gentle laxative…unless you have two cups, which then turns you’re lower intestines to a cannon…for hours and hours…and hours. So, it was the opportunity to bring my lovely daughter Haley instead of my extremely noisy wife. The added bonus to me was my secret, somewhat evil plan, of having Haley eat haggis. I then would have something to bring up during any future arguments…’You ate haggis, Haley…’ and that would have been the end of the argument – for all time. Tonight was going to be great!

If you’re unfamiliar with this Scottish mainstay, here’re the ingredients:

Sheep’s stomach bag and pluck (heart liver and lungs of a sheep - you can substitute a selection of organ meats)
2 onions, peeled
2 cups Pinhead oatmeal; (Irish oatmeal)
1 2/3 cup suet Salt and pepper,
trussing needle and fine string

While sheep stomach stuffed with organs doesn’t sound like something you would want to order at TGIFridays, I have learned to like it – not something to eat every weekend (once a year is fine), but I knew Haley would not touch it if she knew what was in it. “If,” she knew what was in it. Moooohahahaha.

The rest of the small guest list was couples consisting of other Scots and their spouses, a sprinkling of other Britts, and us. An eight foot wall surrounded the compound where the party was. Most of the stand-alone homes here had the same. There was a large gate for cars, and to the left was a smaller door for pedestrian traffic. As we walked in, it was like the scene from a Rockwell painting. I mean Abdullah Rockwell. There was a long, wide brick driveway with trees on each side that had grown over into each other to create this wonderful, natural canopy. White Christmas lights dotted through the the brances like a star-filled sky. There was a fire pit at one end and another small fire over by a majlis or tent-like area with large, long Arabic cushions on the ground. On the other side toward the back was a duck pond. The driveway ended at the steps leading to a large stone porch, and then into the house.

The haggis sat on the dining table next to bowls of mashed "neeps and tatties" (turnips and potatoes). It looked like a shot-put covered in gray skin. Haley eyes picked up on it immediately.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“That’s the haggis.” “Okay. But what is it; I mean what’s it made of?”
I had to keep a straight face. “It’s like a Scottish sausage…like a bratwurst. You know meat and stuff. It’s good, you’ll like it.” She continued to stare at it like she was watching a cow give birth. The host set a bottle of aged Scotch on the table – tradition, and several of the men and I had a wee bit of a toast to Robbie Burns. Apparently while I was occupied with the guys, Haley asked someone else what was in haggis (apparently she didn’t trust her dear old dad – see why I wanted to trick her into eating some!) so that was the end of my secret evil fun for the evening. (What I didn't realize is that she had her own evil plan of vengence that she would soon launch on me.) I think she put a thimble of potatoes on her plate but that was it…until dessert.

Dessert was another traditional Scottish dish called Millionaire Shortbread (I’ll give a link to the recipe at the end of this and you must make these).Squared layers of shortbread, caramel and topped with chocolate. I mean these things are fantastic. Even Miss-I’m-to-good-to-eat-sheep-stomach-Haley continued to take one after the other and push them into her gob.

After dinner we moved back outside to the courtyard/driveway. Speakers were hooked up to the computer which had all the evening’s folk songs programmed in. My Dean (Ta!) and her husband were our dance instructors. They would show everyone the basic steps, and then dance it again to the music. It was very similar to our square dancing, which is probably where our square dancing came from. Duh! Now it was our turn. Five couples stood across from each other, Haley across from me, and our bellies were full of bellies (except Haley’s). 'What a great moment this is,' I thought to myself. It had been a long time since I had danced with my daughter. Now all my daughters are beautiful but she was my youngest - the last to dance with daddy by standing on his feet and walking around a room and now I'm dancing with her all grown-up. I wanted to cry, but then the music started and I was wrestling with a bear. All we had to do was go round-and-round, twice, then backwards, back-to-back, then left foot ball-change, one, two, and repeat. Or, just go around in circles and don’t smash into anyone else. But noooooo, that’s too much to ask my 18 year-old daughter. We went around the courtyard like a pinball bouncing and jerking here and there. I tried to explain what the problem was, “Haley, you keep trying to lead.”
Her response, “Somebody has to.”
“No, Haley, I mean the man always leads.”
“Says, who?”
Okay, game on. And so the evening went. Fighting for lead, song after song, dance after dance. I couldn’t believe how strong she was. I mean she’s a college student, not a steel mill worker. No matter what I did, she countered, and with more force than what I could deliver. In the blur of the beating I was receiving, I could see the lights growing dim and could have sworn she was somehow draining the power into her. I tried everything I have ever learned in martial arts and hand-to-hand combat but nothing could stop her. Finally it came to me, ‘let’s see how you handle this’ and I went completely limp pretending to be dead. It worked! But not for another five dances. For 30 more minutes she continued to whip me around like a life-size rag doll until finally tossing me in the dirt to go get some more Millionaire Shortbread. I think one of the dogs even peed on me. I woke up the following morning all bruised and battered. She told Mom I fell out of a camel truck and I was too embarassed to say anything different.

This was my Scottish Robbie Burns celebration in the UAE. This was my dance with my youngest daughter. All because I thought it would be funny if she ate sheep stomach stuffed with sheep heart and organs. Is that too much for a father to ask? Damn haggis!

Millionaire Shortbread Recipe

She Deserves So Much Better Than Me

I started having some kind of rash – nothing for medical journals but it was bothering me. I had no idea what it was, eczema, heat rash, old-guy skin, who knows but instead of rolling the dice with one of the hospitals here I thought I’d just go to a pharmacy and get something over-the-counter. The pharmacies here look similar to those in the U.S.; white walls, white tile floors, white counters, and employees wearing white medical jackets. They do not have the number of OTC meds and few western brands (we’ve never found Tylenol here), and there’s no 'back area' where a pharmacist would be working filling prescriptions - really not sure where those medications come from. But one item that jumps out that you can’t find in the U.S. is “virginity soap.” It’s a bar of soap in metallic silver box with a picture of a woman in a field full of flowers. On the box it says something like, “restores your virginity for a fresh feeling…”  I tried it and it sort of worked - my face broke out and I had a tremendous feeling of insecurity. One of the other products that are very different is skin lightening products. Lots of them. Different soaps and creams that lighten the color of someone’s skin. The cultures (Indian) that use these are those that have traditionally believed lighter colored skin to be more desirable and prosperous. Meanwhile, whitey America spend billions on tanning beds, tanning products, spray tans, to look darker. I guess the grass is always greener (lighter green or darker green) on the other side, eh?

It was grocery day weekend, and no two grocers carry the same things - and just because they have it one week, does not mean they will have it the next. We decided to go to Carrefore (Middle Eastern Wal Mart) at Bawadi Mall. This choice allowed Melissa to shop in peace while I had my traditional fat-free cappuccino and read the newspaper. Noah would bounce between us as he made the rounds of his normal stores – video games, sporting goods, candy kiosks,and a few clothes shops. I finished my coffee and found the two of them in the dairy isle (the dairy isle is the last isle before checking out so the milk doesn’t get warm). I told Melissa I was going to see if the pharmacy had anything for my rash and would meet her on the other side of the check-out, which is right by the pharmacy. It’s a small place so after a few seconds looking under the ‘skin’ sign, I decided to just ask the pharmacist.

“Can I help you?” the female pharmacist said from behind the counter.

I leaned in a little bit so no one else could hear and said, “Hi, yes, uh, what do you have for a rash?”

She looked me over for a moment trying to spot the problem area. “What kind of rash is it?”

Having not put any thought into what she would ask me, I had no prepared responses ready.

“Uh, I don’t know,” was the best I could come up with.

“Is it for you?”

This is where the tires meet the pavement for the sacred bond between a pharmacist and a customer – you have to be able to tell your health care professional the truth, in complete confidence so they can accurately treat you. I decided to just lie.

“Uhhh, no, it’s for my wife.” I mean I quickly rationalized that she doesn’t know Melissa so what’s the problem if I say it’s for her? The pharmacist nodded and began contemplating all the possibilities of what the rash could be and how to best treat it.

“Is she a little fat?” (People in the Middle East do not ‘beat around the bush,’ in their discussions. They can be very frank in their speech but no offense is met – just factional.) Of course the answer was ‘no’ but we weren’t really talking about Melissa (I’m working on it). I was too embarrassed to tell her the rash cream was for me, but what kind of husband would I be to tell anyone, let alone another woman, even a pharmacist, that my wife is fat because I didn’t want to say it’s for me?

“Uh, yes, uh, she’s a little fat,” escaped from my dry, lie-filled mouth before I could stop it. I looked around to see if Melissa was coming - the coast was clear but I knew I had to hurry. The pharmacist turned around for what seemed like hours as I kept looking over my shoulder for Melissa and Noah, and then she brought back a grey plastic jar.

“Try this,” then she continued with its application. “The heat gets trapped in the fat rolls…have her put this on after her shower, before she starts sweating in her fat.” (I heard my 'good guy' voice saying to me, 'Just stop it. Stop it now. It's not too late. Tell her the truth - that it's for you, that it's for your fat...I mean come on, she's not a blind pharmacist - she knows it's for you. You look like Santa for God's sake, just tell the truth and everything will be fine.')

“Okay, I'll tell her. Thank you,” I said as I ran from the pharmacy and straight into Melissa and Noah pushing the cart of groceries.

“Did you find anything?” she said with honest concern.

“Yes, honey, we’ll see if this works,” I said as I pulled my ball cap down trying to hide my face of shame.

“Good baby, I’m glad.”

I am going to hell for sure, rash and all.