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I'm home again, and I'll be here at least until wednesday. My youngest daughter will be 12 on the 25th(Burns Day), and I promised to stay home til after. I need the rest, but I have tons of stuff to get done. We won't have a Burns Supper but I'll try some haggis and eggs for breakfast on the 25th. I've never really developed a taste for haggis, but I'll try again. And, no, I can't recite "Ode to a Haggis" either. But, if any choose to learn it;

Fair faw yir honest, sonsy face, Great chieftain o' the puddin-race! Aboon them a' yet tak yir place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o'aw grace As lang's my airm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin was help to mend a mill In time o'need, While thro' your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic Labour dight, An' cut you up w'ready sleight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm. reekin', rich! Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive: Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive, Till a' their weel-swalled kytes belyve Are bent like drums; Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, Be thankit! hums. Is there that owre his French ragout Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad make her spew W'perfect scunner, Looks down w'sneering, scornfu' view On sic a dinner? Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckles as wither'd rash, His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash; His nieve a nit; Thro blody flood or field to dash, O how unfit! But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread. Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll mak it whissle; An' legs an' arms, an' hands will snedd. Like taps o trissle. Ye Powrs, wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu prayerGhee her a haggis!

Happy Burns Day!