By Ewan MacAlister, Inverness butcher (Guest Post)
It’s mid-January in the Highlands. The frost clings to the windows like stubborn barnacles, the lochs are rimmed with ice, and in the village hall of Strathpeffer, an odd mix of nerves and spices fills the air. Dozens of us are gathered here—not for a ceilidh, not for a dram (well, maybe a wee one), but for the Annual Highland Haggis-Off, where proud Scots pit their finest haggis recipes against each other in a contest that’s equal parts culinary craft and cultural pride.
You might think this is a joke. Haggis, the butt of many a tourist’s jest, sitting on a silver tray next to a bottle of Glenfiddich. But I’ll tell you—haggis is nae joke to us. It’s our history, our humour, and our heritage rolled into one steaming, peppery parcel.
A Dish Born of Necessity
Haggis wasn’t born in a chef’s kitchen. It was born on the hill, by the fire, when the stag had been felled and every scrap of the beast needed to be used. The origins of haggis go back centuries, and though versions of offal puddings exist across Europe, it’s Scotland that has taken it to heart.
The earliest written reference to haggis in Scotland comes from a poem in 1430, but oral traditions and folklore hint that shepherds and crofters were making versions of it long before. A freshly slaughtered sheep was often butchered in the field, with the heart, liver, and lungs cooked quickly to avoid spoilage. These would be minced, seasoned, and mixed with onions, oatmeal, suet, and a fistful of pepper, then stuffed into the sheep’s own stomach and boiled.
Why the stomach? It’s what they had. This was a dish of thrift, but also of skill—seasoning well, balancing texture, and getting the right “crumble” in the oats wasn’t easy. But it made for something hot, hearty, and honest. And if you’ve ever stood on a snowy hillside in February after a day’s work, you’d know why that matters.
The Highland Haggis-Off: One Man’s Tale
Now, to the present day.
I’ve entered the Highland Haggis-Off seven years in a row. The rules are simple: bring your haggis, homemade, and present it to a panel of judges (three local chefs, one poet, and a whisky distiller). You’re judged on texture, seasoning, appearance, and aroma—and if it brings a tear to someone’s eye, all the better.
This year, I used a blend passed down from my grandmother in Ullapool. She used pinhead oats soaked in lamb stock, wild thyme from her garden, and just a whisper of mace. I hand-minced the pluck—no food processors here, just a sharp knife and patience. The mix sat overnight, and then into a sheep’s stomach it went.
At the event, you can smell the pride before you even see it. The room is heavy with spice and anticipation. Some folk go traditional, others get creative (last year’s “haggis with cranberries and smoked paprika” caused a mild riot). When it’s my turn, I bring my haggis up with a smile, lay it on the tartan cloth, and nod to the judges.
“Name?”
“Ewan MacAlister. Inverness. Fourth-time finalist.”
“Pluck ratio?”
“Sixty percent lungs, twenty liver, twenty heart. Like Granny taught me.”
They nod approvingly.
It doesn’t win this year—a lad from Skye took the prize with a seaweed-laced haggis that, I admit, was spectacular—but I go home happy. Why? Because the tradition’s alive. And that’s what matters.
Haggis: More Than a Burns Night Joke
Every January 25th, Scots at home and abroad celebrate Burns Night, to honour our national bard, Robert Burns, who famously penned “Address to a Haggis” in 1787. The poem is part satire, part hymn, all reverence. That night, we pipe in the haggis, recite Burns, raise a dram, and feast like chieftains.
But haggis isn’t just for Burns Night. It’s a year-round staple here—served with neeps (turnips) and tatties (potatoes), wrapped in pastry as haggis pies, stuffed into chicken breasts for “chicken Balmoral”, or crumbled over breakfast like sausage. And yes, tourists come for the novelty—but many leave surprised at how good it is.
The Recipe: How to Make a Traditional Haggis
Now, if you’re brave enough—and have a strong constitution—here’s a step-by-step guide to making a traditional haggis, just as my grandmother made it.
Ingredients
For the filling (the “meat”):
- 1 sheep’s pluck (heart, liver, and lungs), well cleaned
- 1 sheep’s stomach, cleaned and soaked overnight in salted water
- 450g (1 lb) beef or lamb suet, finely chopped
- 500g (1 lb) pinhead oatmeal
- 2 large onions, finely chopped
- 1 tsp black pepper
- 1 tsp salt
- 1 tsp ground allspice
- ½ tsp mace or nutmeg
- Fresh thyme or parsley (optional)
- Stock from boiling the pluck
Method
1. Prepare the Pluck
Place the heart, liver, and lungs in a large pot. Cover with water, bring to a boil, and simmer for 2 hours. Keep the cooking water—that’s your stock. Let the organs cool.
2. Mince and Mix
Finely mince the pluck (a food processor is cheating, but if you must…). Mix with the suet, onions, oatmeal, salt, pepper, and spices. Add enough of the cooking stock to bind the mixture into a moist but firm consistency.
3. Fill the Stomach
Rinse the sheep’s stomach thoroughly. Spoon in the mixture until it’s just over half full—do not overfill, as the oats will expand. Sew it shut with kitchen twine or skewer it securely.
4. Cook the Haggis
Place the haggis in a large pot of boiling water. Simmer gently for 3–4 hours. Prick once or twice with a needle to let steam escape, but don’t let the casing burst.
5. Serve with Pride
Slice open ceremonially with a dirk (or carving knife), serve with mashed neeps and tatties, and pour over a whisky sauce if you fancy.
Final Thoughts: A National Treasure
To outsiders, haggis might seem odd. Offal in a stomach? Sounds barbaric. But to us Scots, haggis is a thing of beauty. It’s a celebration of making the most of what you’ve got, of remembering where you come from, of warming the belly and the soul.
And it’s adaptable. You’ll now find vegetarian haggis (made with lentils, nuts, mushrooms, and spices), deep-fried haggis balls at chip shops, and even haggis nachos on trendy menus in Glasgow. The purists may scoff—but I say let the dish evolve. As long as it’s made with heart (and a bit of heart), it’s still haggis.
So next time someone offers you a bite of haggis, don’t flinch. Take it. Taste it. Feel the history on your tongue. And remember the words of Robert Burns:
“Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o’ the puddin-race!”
Slàinte mhath.
