Swede Child(hood) of Mine

Being born to a (very) Scottish father and an English mother, one central question dominated my childhood. Not devolution of powers, not Scottish independence, not even whether poem should be pronounced ‘poem’ or ‘poyem’. The question that seemed to most vex my family was: what does a turnip look like? Is it small and purple-tinged, as my Mum would argue, or large and orange as my Dad would?

In Scotland, a turnip is a swede, and a swede is a turnip. Or (just for diplomacy’s sake) in England, a swede is a turnip, and a turnip is a swede. Something funny happened, somewhere around Hadrian’s Wall, and left many a violent vegetable dispute in its wake.

A turnip by any other name would taste as swede

Most of the time, this doesn’t have hugely dramatic consequences. It is not as though they have swapped ‘chocolate’ and ‘sprouts’; most people would be equally happy (or unhappy) to be served either turnips or swede. But on Burns Night – in the name of Scottish authenticity – it becomes incredibly important.

The traditional Burns Supper on 25th January, at which Scots celebrate the life of Scottish poet Robert ‘Rabbie’ Burns, is Haggis served with Neeps and Tatties. ‘Neeps’, as I hope you’ve already guessed, is short for Turnips (if this foray into Scottish language confuses you, it’s not looking good for the rest of this blog). And if you’re English, by ‘turnips’ they mean ‘swede’.

Phew. All this, and we haven’t even got onto the troubling question of what is actually in a Haggis.

As well as a bit of confusion, the traditional Burns Supper (like all good meals) also comes with its own poem, the ‘Address to a Haggis’. Thankfully, Burns doesn’t dwell too much on its contents (‘Painch, tripe, or thairm’ roughly translates as ‘gut, stomach lining or intestine’ – YUM!) but spends most of the time explaining its appeal.

As a child, and truthfully as an adult, the words of this poem were totally foreign, and only brought alive for me by the spirited performances of my father. My favourite bit (probably everyone’s favourite bit) is the third verse, where the Haggis-addresser must clean his knife,

An’ cut you up wi’ ready slicht,
Trenching your gushing entrails bricht,
Like ony ditch;*

At this moment, the Haggis is sliced open. Growing up, this was about as exciting as meal-times got. One year, the juices even sprayed some of our guests. I’m not sure if this is obligatory, but I would definitely recommend it.

Who wouldn't want to eat this?

But as a grown up, this ‘Address’ is not just exciting because of grease-spattered guests. It is also very funny, and sums up Scotland’s understanding of how the rest of the world views its food (and its place in the world) while being peppered (excuse the pun) with heavy Scottish sarcasm.

The foreignness of the words makes the poem a bit more exciting than the usual – almost like watching a play, but with dinner thrown in. Spoken in a Scottish accent, they’re also easier to understand than they look on the page. But perhaps most importantly, the Scottish words make it possible to ignore what you’re putting in your mouth. As the Scots would say, dinna fash yersel. Just eat.

*And cut it up with great skill, making a trench in the bright, gushing entrails, to form a ditch.

Have you ever eaten haggis? Would you ever?

If you can’t face it, but want to help celebrate Scottishness, try something more gentle from our Burns Night Menu.

By Holly Graham