(Back to business on a Monday morning and damn. These drugs though.)
It's Robbie Burns Day which means Ben has been interrupting this day with horrifyingly regular recitals with his bagpipes out on the telescope platform and PJ and I spent half the morning procuring haggis and finally found some thanks to the creepy butcher who said he makes extra for the last minute types like us.
I'm not last-minute. I swear I remembered just after breakfast instead of three weeks ago like I should have. I went and got some fresh scotch and some fixings to go with the haggis. Like steak because..well, haggis. It's cooking now and it smells delicious. I just don't...well, like eating the parts you're supposed to throw away. I tried to negotiate down to veal-stuffed pasta but he wouldn't budge.
Daniel and Schuyler went and offered magnificently to lead the dinner after I abandoned the procedure halfway through last years Burns Night on account of the overbearing thought of having to eat this meal when for me, eating turkey is a feat of courage only reserved for the most special of occasions, like Easter and Christmas. I also had the flu last year this time. Go figure.
But this is a special occasion, he insists. Lochlan is so excited. He put on his kilt instead of jeans first thing and is already coming up rash, more red than usual thanks to the rough wool. I won't go near him or I'll be red too but I will cook this if he wants it and organize this night to rival what I hope will be an equally exciting and revered St. Patrick's Day later this spring. The war is on.
My girl, she's airy, he begins.
Oh, shut up already.