It was an evening like any other.
I was meandering home down the dimly-lit side street, lost in thought, when something caught my eye and I halted. I looked down and could see, around and ahead of me, potato skins mysteriously scattered along the pavement. I glanced around furtively, a Poirot-like curiosity awakened, but could spy no shred of other vegetable matter in the vicinity.
For twenty or so yards, I followed the trail of distinctive pinky-red rooster peelings and stopped at a shabby green doorway. I imagined some unfortunate Hansel or Gretel, compelled to leave behind an identifiable trail, but were those peels leading away from that door or leading me, La Spud, to it?
I scurried on, the mystery unsolved. For days afterward, the trail remained and I wondered about it each time I passed.
Where do you go to, my lovelies?
Picture the scene.
You crack open the fridge, fumble past the leftovers and (hurrah!) locate that jar of mustard that you could have sworn was half-full. Only those deceptive splodges clinging to the sides of the jar are little more than a masquerade of thin smears and (boo!) the jar is, in fact, devoid of any appreciable content.
Where once there was mustard, now there is only disappointment.
Curses! Empty jar syndrome strikes again...
Cullen skink and cock-a-leekie, forfar bridies and clootie dumplings.
Och aye, a Scottish menu, even if you should understand nary a syllable, is nevertheless a pleasure to the ears. And I expect you’ll find Scottish menus aplenty this week, both in Scotland and elsewhere, as Burns Night, the annual celebration of Scotland’s national bard, rolls around this coming Tuesday.