Burns Night reds and blues

The Aga and myself have spent most of our lives in a land called Ayrshire or Land o’ Burns. This, title, I am told, is not so much because of all the scorch marks made on neglected washing left on Agas, nor roast potatoes left for 3 days too long to wails from Mum when she remembered, but to the birth hereabouts some 256 years ago of an iconic poet called Robert Burnt, sorry, Burns. From what I see from my elevated position on the dragon’s hearth, this individual is responsible for the excessive consumption of some pretty weird fare. Why boil stomachs full of grain and spice and offal in a pot when they can just roast a leg of lamb and share it with me? Then they go all silly with stinky whisky stuff and chanting outbursts.

burns cottage ayrshire
Mum as Agnes Broun outside Burns’ Cottage

Yesterday was that notorious poets’ birthday and Mum was dressed up to the nines, tripping over her hemline and asking Dad to strap her into an over-tight dress so she could look like she was younger, slimmer and lither. Personally I think being able to breathe does more for a girl. She even painted her head fur (and my kitchen) a rusty colour she calls henna before donning a white cap which completely covered her efforts. She said she was playing the part of Robert’s mum Agnes in the cottage he was born, as if that explained everything, before rushing off with a wicker basket of fresh hot bannocks and soup, determined to have the Burns’ Cottage smell as good as our home. Well of course it won’t, their stove went out years ago and the fire is pretend, and the cottage cat only comes out at Halloween, but thats another tale.

Mum says haggis is awfae rich reekin fare, then blames the bard for her lingo. She claims it tastes pretty good mixed with chopped tomatoes and stuffed into baked potatoes. I told her some white fish would be preferable thank you, so she obliged me. I have her well trained now. All I have to do is threaten to be sick, generate a fur-ball, and she is putty in my hands.

alert cat

Love from Tiddler x

Thank you to Janet Renouf-Miller for the piccy of Mum, who was far too tired after all her yapping to hundreds and hundreds of visitors to manage a selfie, and so was very pleased with the souvenir.

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