Burns Night Celebrations

My First Burns Night (From Under the Table)

I was not supposed to be there.

At least, that’s what the humans said when the door opened and the bagpipes attacked the room. But by then it was too late. I was already in, eyes wide, ears jingling. I thought the pipes were some kind of warning alarm. Or a summoning spell. Or both. They were loud enough to wake the stones in the walls. They are AWESOME.  I'ma ask Santa for some. 

Everyone stood up very straight and serious while a big shiny thing on a plate was carried in like a king. Turns out it was haggis. 

I did not know food could get a parade. 

The piper marched, the humans nodded solemnly, and I hid behind a chair. The ceremony felt ancient—like something passed down from before doors were invented. 

Then came the words. Poems! Loud ones! Someone shouted at the haggis with great respect and also a knife. Then comes the best part: the Address to the Haggis. A noble pudding! Peppery, steamy, glorious. I grip my knife and fork like a warrior preparing for battle. Neeps? Sweet. Tatties? Comforting. Haggis? Absolute magic. One moment of silence, then chaos — the good kind.

When it was sliced open, steam escaped like the haggis had been holding its breath for centuries. Everyone cheered. I cheered too, (but quietly, because gremlins are not supposed to be there).

They talked about tradition a LOT. About remembering poets and places and people long gone. I don’t know much about poets, but I know a good ritual when I see one. This was a night where everyone agreed to care deeply about the same things at the same time—and also eat an alarming amount.  And throwing each other around a shiny floor, which they called Stripping the Willow.  I don’t understand all the words, mind you, but I feel them. Mostly because I’m very hungry. Which is when I struck.

While the humans raised glasses and toasted and toasted again, I crept. Under the table. Over the rug. A forgotten plate of oatcakes sat unattended, brave and crumbly. I took three. Four. Maybe five. I regret nothing. 

Then—oh joy—someone set down a glass of whisky and turned their head. I dipped a claw. Just a bit. Fire and honey and thunder. I coughed for a full minute and saw my ancestors. 

                        

I danced a little jig by the fire, kilt swishing, sporran bouncing, behaving almost respectably. Almost. By the end of the night, the pipes were quieter (thank goodness), but there was more ceilidh-ing and throwing each other around in circles. The poems were warmer, and the humans were laughing instead of standing so stiff. I curled up near the hearth with crumbs in my sporran and the smell of smoke and grain wishing me sweet dreams.

Burns Night, I learned, is about noise and spinning, and words and memory. If you’ve never celebrated Burns Night, you’ve truly missed out. We may be small, sharp-toothed, and famously chaotic, but even we know when it’s time to show a little respect — especially when haggis is involved. But also—if you are small and clever—it is also about delicious snacks when nobody is looking.

I will definitely be back.

Burns Night, to me, is about warmth in the cold, stories told loudly, and sharing food until you can’t move. Whether you’re human or gremlin, it’s a night for poetry, mischief, and full bellies.

Now if you’ll excuse me — someone’s left the haggis unattended.

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