Gushing entrails and slagging off

Oh dear, I have been very neglectful of writing these past few weeks. I can assure you, though, you did not miss out on too much. In the past month I have had food poisoning twice and the flu in between. Lucky me. But, I have learned from these experiences. For example:

1. Indian food should never be “experimental."
2. Never let your Scottish boyfriend try to cook for you an “authentic American dish.”

One exciting thing that happened recently, though, was Scotland’s annual holiday of Burns Night, which celebrates Scotland’s national bard, Robert Burns. The traditional Burns Night includes the procession of the haggis, where a bagpiper leads a silver-plated haggis between the dinner guests. This is followed by the recitation of Burns’ “Ode to a Haggis”, which is written in Scots dialect and is therefore completely incomprehensible. Here is my favorite stanza:

“His knife see rustic Labour dight,


An cut you up wi ready slight,


Trenching your gushing entrails bright,

Like onie ditch;


And then, O what a glorious sight,

Warm-reekin, rich!”

You are about to eat this food, which, I will warn you, is banned in the US because it consists of sheep’s livers, lungs, and other organs, and the bard is trying to excite you about eating it by describing the sight as “gushing entrails.” Yum.

"Warm-reekin', rich!"

Of course, I cannot say anything against the poor haggis, as I have eaten it for breakfast, lunch and dinner before. Nothing like some sheep lungs to get you energized for the day!

At the Burns Supper, I was asked in advance to write and recite a toast. Formal toasts are an official part of the evening, and I was honored to be chosen, though slightly daunted. Traditionally, the first toast is a toast to the Bard, describing his life and accomplishments. This is followed by a Toast to the Lassies, where a man lovingly teases the women. Women have the last word, though, as the toasts end with the Reply to the Toast to the Lassies. This was my bit.

Since I had never done a Burns toast before, I was unsure of the traditions, so I asked locals. The women told me, “Just make sure you slag off the men as MUCH as possible!” Often this was accompanied by a whispered, “We’re all counting on you!” Apparently some of my female friends have built up anger against the other sex. Mike, for his part, just told me to make it rhyme. I spent quite some time perfecting my rhyming toast, and with some pointers from Mike, I finally finished. When it was my turn to present to the hundred or so folks in the room, though, I realized I had put myself into a bit of a pickle. I had been told by all to tease the men ruthlessly, and I had done so quite happily (perhaps too easily…). But when Lawrence, the lad giving the toast to the lassies, was speaking, he called us women “pure angels” and “lights of the world” and on and on with deep respect and love. What was this?! I was not expecting such praise! And here I was, poem in hand, with nothing but jabs at the poor men. Whoops! Luckily, the toast ended up being a success (I gave a good disclaimer at the beginning apologizing for being a soon-to-be-married woman and therefore having a lot of material to use against the men). I will leave you all with the very toast I recited. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed performing it!

Ashlee’s Reply to the 'Toast to the Lassies':

"For all you folks who find my speech odd,

I’ll first admit that I’m from abroad.

So I won’t use words like “wee” or “blether”

Unlike Burns and his “Tam O Shanter.”

Still I can speak of our fine lads here

Even if my speech is slightly unclear.

For men are men from sea to sea,

And I’ll speak of them quite happily.

Every Laddie needs a Lass

Just as every girl needs someone to harass.

For men are nothing if not charming

(Despite their noises, which are most alarming!).

From their love of toys and cars

To their wont of brawls in bars,

Men are something to adore

Until you ask of something more.

When men are asked to do the dishes

All your words are hopes and wishes.

Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile –

All the clothes are in a pile!

The brand-new iron’s on the brink;

There’s loads of dishes in the sink;

All the socks are on the floor—

I just can’t take it anymore!

A fuse is blown in the telly,

The toilet’s getting kinda smelly.

The drain is blocked, the faucet leakey,

Men’s DIY is kind of freaky.

Here he comes with tools in hand

If only he could understand

That screwdriver up in the air

Doesn’t mean that he should dare.

The toilet’s gone, the sink is missing

I’m pretty sure the oven’s hissing.

All they do is moan and groan

While we get a professional on the phone.

But maybe we should not dismay

For men, they just get carried away

They get these ideas in their minds

But to women’s intuition they are blind.

Despite this fault they certainly excel,

For who else can eat and sleep so well?

They’re always quick to answer your call

As long as you promise dinner and all.

With strength and bravery they have no rival,

Although their displays can be quite tribal.

Like the painted face of William Wallace

The men are quick to show their boldness.

Give them a drink and they have nerve to display

A box full of chocolates and a pretty bouquet.

They’ll romance us with dance moves on Saturday night

(And let me just say, it’s not a pretty sight!)

They can flatter and court the ladies so well

And make us feel like a right Southern Belle.

And let’s just admit it, ladies, you know

We all like a little boost of ego.

So really we need the men in our lives

And not just for someone to tease and chastise.

The two of us go hand in hand

No matter where you claim your homeland.

Having met my share of men

I have only one conclusion

Without a doubt there’s no contest,

The Laddies from Scotland are always the best!

So Ladies please raise your glass to toast

These fine men we love the most."

Raise your Pipes with Pride

Actor Gerard Butler shows Scottish Pride

January is kind of an exciting time in Scotland. Sure, the temperatures barely hover above zero; and yes, the wind it so strong it continually sends your hat on long adventures through the crowded city streets and into random people’s faces. But besides all of that, the first weeks of January are an exciting build up to one of Scotland’s biggest holidays, Burns Night. To prepare, every January Scotland hosts a series of concerts, Robert Burns poetry recitations, and haggis promoting. Really it’s just yet another excuse to get drunk (just like Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays…). But it’s also a nice time that the country reflects on its roots and celebrates its cultural highlights, something more countries should do, in my opinion.

The main festival to promote this party/introspective time is called Celtic Connections. The festival has many positive points. On the one hand, the blustery January weather is made slightly less bleak when you can dance a little jig in it. And there are some great artists and up-and-coming talents promoted, including one of my favorite pianists, Craig Armstrong. On the other hand, the lines that define “Celtic” music are bit blurred in these festivals sometimes. My friends and I went to one of the Celtic Connections concerts on Saturday and found this first-hand. Although the first act was the expected fiddle-stomp-and-clap-your-hands music that I love, the following acts were just stretching the definition. One of these interlopers had the saucy stage name of the “Wild Women of Edinburgh.” However, the band ended up being five middle-aged and slightly out of tune women who tried to be “American jazzy”, which was confusing at a Scottish Celtic music concert.

Electric ceilidh music, album by The Borders, 2009

Despite all this, I am not trying to bemoan the traditional festival. But, really, I miss the fiddles. And the jigs. What happened to my university days when you could walk into a local Gaelic pub and be guaranteed to hear at a least a little Gaelic spoken and definitely live music playing. Locals would bring their bagpipes and violins and play together, just for fun, in the pubs. (I like to think every true Scotsman/woman carries these around on their daily commute, just in case they should happen to pass a Gaelic pub and be moved to dance). There’s nothing wrong with a little experimentation – go ahead and add that electric bass guitar! – but it would be terribly sad to see this wonderful genre of music diluted and dulled by adding too many “global influences." I would be interested to hear other people's opinions on this...

Come on Scotland, let’s go back to your stereotypical roots and stop trying so hard to be American or French or anything else (and certainly not “jazzy”.). What’s cooler than kilts and ceilidhs, anyways? That’s right – nothing!

New Year Texan Enlightenments

Happy 2010 2011 Everyone! (I’m going to be scratching out dates until June). Is everyone all rested up and ready for the last year before the Apocalypse?  At least, that’s what John Cusack tells me.

2011 promises to be a fantastic year, not just for me but for the Legal Alien’s travels and stories! Drunken hen nights, European adventures, rugby matches and a royal wedding (Kate Who? I’m talking about my wedding!). The stories to be told… Oh, the antici – wait for it – PATION!

But, all that is to come. To start the New Year, I will first delve into the past. My Christmas break was spent overseas in the backwoods of Texas (aka the burbs of Fort Worth). I’m not sure why, but apparently I felt the need to go all-out hick for a week, since I have gone six months without saying “ya’ll” or wearing cowboy boots, much to my Scottish fiancé, Mike’s, amusement. This, of course, was not helped by the presence of my younger sister. While I moved away to the most un-western/hick country I could think of (“More tea, Agatha?” “No, dear Rupert, I believe the Queen is to make her Christmas Address…”), Lindsey crossed the border of the real life Farmville, known locally as Texas A&M University. Cowboy boots are so revered there that students in the Corps are given "privileged brown leather boots" as seniors – and they consider this a highest honor!

With Lindsey’s catchy enthusiasm, Mike and I were easily persuaded to go out with her and her other Aggie friends to Billy Bob’s Country Western Dance Hall (I couldn’t have made that more southern if I tried). There are many of these dance halls spread across the southern states, and they are all quite similar. There is an unofficial dress code of tank tops, blue jeans, and cowboy boots. Everyone smokes. A large, mechanical bull is just off the dance floor. However, Billy Bob’s takes all of this a step further. Not only is there a mechanical bull, but there is an entire small-scale arena where you can ride a real buckin’ bronco every Friday and Saturday night. There are angry old Texans who throw bar stools at liberals for making a joke about George Bush. Also, other dance halls play 80% country-western and 20% random club music, so just after you’ve finished your two-step the disco lights come out and Timbaland starts jamming for a few songs. Not so at Billy Bob’s. Here it’s 100% country, from the Blue Moon on tap to the BBQ bar. Lindsey and I got very excited when the stereotypical country songs stopped and the hip-hop music started up. We did what any other unsuspecting, non-Texan would do – we jumped on stage and started the awkward circle of club dancing. Mike even successfully attempted The Worm. But after a few moments, we looked around and noticed something strange. These alien creatures of country were line-dancing to Lady Gaga! Is that even possible?!

Oh, it is.

And it is terrifying.

They even lined danced to “Cotton-Eyed Joe”, a travesty which should simply be outlawed. (Everyone knows you must hook arms and scream a few curse words at the top of your lungs throughout “Cotton-Eyed Joe”).

Mike broke records: longest bull time and first Scottish cowboy in Texas

Many hours and 20 blisters later, we returned to the house, high off of our ultra-Texan fix. By the time we arrived home, we had collectively made some important decisions:

1)   New cowboy boots should not be worn for the first time at a line-dance/two-step non-stop frenzy, as you will not be able to walk for three days afterwards.

2)   6 months of a country-western/southern hick void cannot safely be filled in one night, especially when drunken bar fights occur between intoxicated Texans. With guns.

3)   Country-western should not be limited to Texas.

As I have returned to the UK now, though, I am beginning to doubt our third enlightenment. Two days after our arrival in Scotland we received three inches of snow, and, still feeling nostalgic, I decided it would be a brilliant idea to wear my cowboy boots as I made the short walk down our 45˚ angle of a driveway to my front door. Two steps in the snow and I became a human sled and gracelessly careened down the icy slope, much to the amusement of the passing cars and volunteers shovelling the snow at the bottom. I have therefore added an amendment: Country-western should not be limited to Texas, but cowboy boots should.

Well, you can’t say I never learned nothing.

Happy 2011, and stay tuned for many more adventures in the coming year!