Deborah, This year for the first time, I made a batch of haggis ravioli for Bobby Burns Day. I was first thinking of haggis pierogi, accompanied by some Zurek, but then it was so close to RB's Birthday, that, well, it just became obvious. Impossible to douse in Scotch whiskey, salt soaked in whiskey was used in the mix. Wait til next year! Haggis should never be a sad occasion. McTwybil -----Original Message----- From: Deborah Mills Woodcarving <[log in to unmask]> To: [log in to unmask] Sent: Mon, 13 Apr 2009 7:47 pm Subject: Re: [BP] Skye I hitchhiked to and around the Isle of Skye when I was 20; of course I met the most wonderful Scots (I still relish saying "squirrel" as I heard it there), drank the most wonderful scotch, marveled at the truly breathtaking land-, sky- and sea-scapes... My one disappointment was that I couldn't find haggis served anywhere, so I bought some at a butcher's and cooked it at the youth hostel. A very sad meal. Later on, one of the nice people who gave me a lift said that I was supposed to douse it with scotch. Which, years later, living in Norway and quaffing aquavit following each bite of lutefisk, suddenly made perfect sense. Deborah At 13:11 11.04.2009, you wrote: Leland, Great story. I trust you are aware that piping has deep roots in Skye. It was the home of the MacCrimmons, hereditary pipers to the MacLeod clan for quite a while. They had a "college" in Dunvegan, where they taught the Ceol Mor, "big music", long before the military stuff came along. One of the most haunting piobreached tunes of the Ceol Mor is Cha Till MacCruimen, "MacCrimmon will Never Return", a lament that was written by Donald MacCrimmon after having a premonition of his own death at the Rout of Moy. Try to find it on midi, if you can't, let me know. Twybil -----Original Message----- From: Leland Torrence <[log in to unmask]> To: [log in to unmask] Sent: Sat, 11 Apr 2009 9:35 am Subject: [BP] Skye Michael, I have not been to the place of my family’s ancestors, but one day, I will make good. Yesterday, a rainy, New England day in too early spring –forsythia and magnoliia a week away – I stopped at Richter’s for a couple of Bowwmore Islay 18 year. As I sat there a few moments, before joined by Deter, and some early to leave the scaffold, I was humming the Skye Boat Song in my head. Often around Easter, I think of my Dad. It was his favorite song. As legend goes, the family received our coat of arms by rowing Robert The Bruce (not the=2 0would be king of the song) to safety on the Isle of Man. As the story goes, a storm blew up, and the Bruce had been impressed that the men broke into song. My Dad would hum the melody to us as babies, and later, on the water, or sitting looking at the mountains. We had a single bag piper play it as we walked hi s remains to be sprinkled into Bloody Brook. I am going to go have another this afternoon, and I will think of him, and you. Best, Leland Skye Boat Song (Sir Harold Boulton, 1884) Speed bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing, Onward, the sailors cry Carry the lad that's born to be king Over the sea to Skye Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar, Thunder clouds rend the air; Baffled our foe's stand on the shore Follow they will not dare Though the waves leap, soft shall ye sleep Ocean's a royal bed Rocked in the deep, Flora will keep Watch by your weary head Many's the lad fought on th at day Well the claymore could wield When the night came, silently lay Dead on Culloden's field Burned are our homes, exile and death Scatter the loyal men Yet, e'er the sword cool in the sheath, Charlie will come again. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Words by Sir Harold Boulton, Bart., 1884. Music by Annie MacLeod. From: The listserv where the buildings do the talking [ mailto:[log in to unmask]] On Behalf Of [log in to unmask] Sent: Friday, April 10, 2009 6:08 PM To: [log in to unmask] Subject: Re: [BP] welcome In a message dated 4/10/2009 2:00:15 AM Central Daylight Time, Deborah writes: I love Laphroaig as a winter dram; if I shut my eyes, I'd swear I was sitting in a big old h earth soaking up the warmth of the fire, it's so peaty.  Some time in the mid 60's ; I was hitchiking through Skye and got a ride with a local farmer who thought well enough of this hulking young american with a back pack and peach fuzz on his chin to offer him a spot for his sleeping bag and a place by the fire and hot supper at the family table ; For those who have never been ; Skye is enchantingly beautiful with purple heather and purple mountains . The sun was going down on this day and we were on a vey twisty turning gravel road when we became escoureted by two black and white Scottish sheep dogs who brought us to the front door of the main cottage ; a thick walled stone cottage with the tiny stone windows of the 19th cent . The house and garden overlooked the wind tossed race of the inner hebrides ; and with the mystical purple mountains and the suns reflection off the sea and clouds I thought I was in some dream of the celtic twilight of the Gods . . We uncermonously entered the front door of the house and I realized I had entered a different world ; the floor was rolled oiled clay and there before the roaring peat fire was a beaten copper tub with two naked children having thier saturday bath given by thier mother as two octogenarian grand parents looked on from chairs by=2 0the fire Everyone including the kids welcomed me ;but they all were speaking G allic ; which I had never heard before . Its a very poetic ; a song like language . Unsure I wasn't dreaming I too was offered a chair by the fire and given a glass of something peaty as the rosy cheeked children were exited from the bath and rubbed hard with a dry towel before the fire My first taste of the liquid plunged me into the wildness of the place .and my memlory of traveling through it The peat , the fire , the granite , the purple mountains and the briny rugged coast of the Hebrides .all fell in on me with this complex taste with a bite of sea weed The next tastes began to conjure up images and legends of the sea the monsters and the stories of the little people of the lochs ; the devic spirituality of the druids and the pagans who worshiped this magical mystical land of rocks of Old Gods and potions whose very liquid I was drinking captured me and held me in some timeless root to the inner celtic world . of dream and story . The father interupted my visons and spoke to me in English to make me feel more at home but it was the glass ...... the briny nectar of the ..Lagavulin ..that tied it all together and welocmed me home Slange Na Var ; Py Ps In warm climates the taste of whiskey isn't as comforting as the colder or lighter spirits as a beverages ; ************** A Good Credit Score is 700 or Above. See20yours in just 2 easy steps! 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Version: 7.5.557 / Virus Database: 270.11.52 - Release Date: 4/10/2009 12:00 AM Deborah Mills Woodcarving 1205 Manhattan Ave. # 2-3-1 Brooklyn, NY 11222 646-288-7497 cellphone www.deborahmillswoodcarving.com [log in to unmask] -- To terminate puerile preservation prattling among pals and the uncoffee-ed, or to change your settings, go to: http://listserv.icors.org/archives/bullamanka-pinheads.html *Please vote for ICORS every 24 hours* http://www.lsoft.com/news/choicevote.asp -- To terminate puerile preservation prattling among pals and the uncoffee-ed, or to change your settings, go to: <http://listserv.icors.org/archives/bullamanka-pinheads.html> *Please vote for ICORS every 24 hours* <http://www.lsoft.com/news/choicevote.asp>