Haggis from scratch

REGARDED with suspicion and humour south of The Borders, in Scotland haggis provokes the sort of cultural passions perhaps only food can - a heady mix of ethnic allegiances, a guarded notion of terroir, and national myth. With its annual, international airing every January 25 for the traditional Burns Supper, haggis maintains a reputation as something quintessentially Scottish, and remains widely available.

A web search of "haggis recipes" brings up a grab bag of mysterious sounding links - from a celebrity chef's rabbit haggis to haggis lasagne and an Elizabethan recipe that calls for "calves chaldron well scowred". The haggis, with its proscriptions, mythology and poetry is a dish with a reputation. But what are the origins of the "chieftain o' puddin' race"? Wikipedia, to be treated with caution when it comes to themes of national pride, even-handedly compares it to other offal sausages like the French andouillette - a singular beast comprised of pork intimates that has also been praised in poesy, as well as possible Norse and Icelandic origins. And inevitably, there have been reports that the dish may have emerged in England. National food provenance rivalries are pointless, so let's ignore all that in honour of Burns Night and haggis's enduring popularity: despite risking the wrath of Scots (though having seen pictures of haggis in pitta bread and haggis nachos on a major Scottish haggis manufacturers sight, it's hard to see how), we're going to cook one from scratch.

Ingredients
1 sheep's stomach, or a length of ox bung or sausage casing
1 sheep's pluck
3 large onions
300g quality oatmeal
200g suet
250ml chicken stock or water pluck was cooked in
Butter
Herbs and spices
Salt and pepper

A sheep's pluck and stomach shouldn't be too hard to come by - all sheep have them. But it's the chain of supply that's the problem; dealing with highly perishable, largely undesired offal, butchers only get in what sells. One said, "don't bother, get one [a haggis] at the supermarket." Allens of Mayfair complied, and sourced a pluck in a day (cost, £4.79).

The pluck usually comprises the heart, lungs, a glorious globe of liver and all or part of the trachea (put over the side of the pot to expel lung fluids). We spotted sweetbreads on this one, too. Give it a good rinse under the tap, then into a large pot of salted water for a quick boil and skim, followed by a simmer for two hours. The smell permeates the kitchen, then the house: the reek of burnt pecans and boiling egg whites - the first sign that cooking haggis from scratch is not ideal for those without extractor fans or an outdoor Aga. Make sure the pot's big enough: the top of the lungs here were slightly exposed, taking on a pink grey shade, as the trachea wasn't quite big enough to stretch over the pot with everything immersed. It had to be turned over, which let the lungs expectorate into the broth, so we used chicken stock to add to the mix later, rather than the reserved liquor.
Once the pluck has cooled, separate the components, discarding the trachea and other pipes, and grate or mince. In hindsight, fine chopping followed by grating or a very quick whiz with a Bamix or processer might have improved the final texture, which wasn't quite grainy enough - remember that it shouldn't resemble pâté - the texture of the meat should pair nicely with the oatmeal and only needs to be slightly moistened by the chicken or pluck stock. Mix in the seasoning: there seems to be variants: ground allspice - not actually a mix of spices but a Caribbean pepper - or a spice mix reflecting those available to Georgian Britain: one teaspoon each of ground black pepper, ground dried coriander, mace and nutmeg. And a decent dose of coarse salt.
Dice three onions and fry in butter until soft/translucent and fragrant and add the suet - quite a bit as there needs to be plenty of fat to absorb into the oatmeal and carry the taste; aside from the typical fat around the heart, there's very little in the meat. Toast 250g or even a little more, of quality oatmeal, careful not to brown it.
Thoroughly minced and mixed, traditionally it's stuffed into a lamb's stomach. Allens provided thinner, more delicate sheep's casing, so the finished product ended up sausage like, rather than the weighty, cricket ball sized bag of stomach or ox bung. It's worth shopping around, as our finished product was too small for any Burns Supper ceremony, and stuffing the skins with the haggis is difficult without a sausage maker. Feeling a bit like home veterinary practice, improvisation consisted of a plastic bottle and spurtle, an improbably named Scottish porridge stirrer which worked delightfully. Finally, stitch or tie up as firmly as possible with butchers string. This method worked, but the length of the haggises were varied due to the buildup of pressure from the spurtle, breaking the delicate sheep's casing. It's time consuming - use a larger casing.
Lower gently into simmering water for another round of cooking - up to three hours is recommended for a large (stomach) haggis - we're going with one and a half for our thinner version. The water should colour slightly but not foam too much or thicken up and become opaque. If it does, something might have ruptured - as one of ours did - leaving an emasculated remnant of skin, butchers string and an unfortunate ooze at the bottom of the pot. The cooking smell this time starts off slightly rank, but quickly becomes nutty and almost vegetable in its earthiness. It's reassuring to remember that some food - pig's spleen springs to mind - smells disgusting when cooking, but brushes up on the plate (and palate).

In the absence of bagpipes and Robert Burns recitations, we're going slightly off piste here and adding a sauce - a velouté with chicken stock and a dash of whisky as recommended by Larousse Gastronomique, in honour of the Auld Alliance (to paraphrase Fergus Henderson). That and a side of buttered swedes (neeps). Tatties (potatoes) are the other traditional accompaniment - as well as a whisky or decent ale. A cranachan for dessert wouldn't hurt either.

The sausages expanded out of the knife slits nicely, giving a hint of the grainy, oaty, almost cakey feel of the haggis. That said, a stomach or larger casing like ox bung, would be an improvement, because the final texture was slightly pasty. A larger bag of the meat would maintain the grainy dryness while poaching, unlike the slim, large surface area of sausage skin we used. (We wondered if anyone had attempted cooking haggis sous vide, and thoughts turned to Paul Bocuse's Bresse chicken poached in a bladder.)

The taste was bang on, though, no significant difference to the most commonly available, and very good, store-bought haggis from McSween. Considering the time taken in preparation, cooking haggis from scratch is a tough call (at least you'll know where your meat has come from). Like lots of Scottish food - great ingredients implemented badly - haggis gets a bad rap from factory-frozen-to-fry-up B&B breakfasts. The reality is a delicious dish with a unique taste and texture, even if cooking it leaves a lingering, underground smell of creosote. 

Stockists (call ahead, you'll have to order the pluck)
Allens of Mayfair
Moen's & Sons
The Ginger Pig at Borough Market