Address Tae The Haggis. On A Pizza!

With Burns Night coming up this Sunday we had to reach for the haggis, but in true #SmallCityRecipes style we thought we might give it a bit of a twist! I know we have lots of readers from all over the world so, for our followers outwith Scotland, Burns Night is our annual celebration to commemorate the life of Scottish poet Robert Burns who was born on 25^th January 1759.

I’m a big fan of haggis and as well as the traditional butcher's mix, I also enjoy veggie haggis in a big way.  The kids have been asking for a pizza night all week so I thought this would be the perfect combo and give me a kid friendly Burns Night!

The dough can be made and frozen in advance if you don't have time on the day. I made a batch recently and given the sizeable amount of dough these quantities make, I cut it into portion sizes, wrapped it up and put it in the freezer to take out as and when I needed it. I use 00 flour – it’s extra fine and great for making pizzas as it gives the bases a light and crisp texture.

I love how this dough rolls out nice and thinly making the crust super thin and light.

You could of course make your own tomato base too, but I was pushed for time this week and opted for one of the tasty tomato jar sauces that Provender Brown sell.

So all that’s left is to raise a toast and recite the “Address tae the Haggis”. But I doubt very much if Rabbie had his on a pizza!

Gill x

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm :
Weel are ye wordy o'a grace
As lang's my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad 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 wi' 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-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit! hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad make her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;
His nieve a nit;
Thro' bloody 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' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs, 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' prayer
Gie her a haggis!

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Aye yours, N X