On Haggis and Donald Trump
Note, please, the face on the 10 pound note.
On this feast day of Robert Burns, less than a week into the second Trump administration, things are not well. ICE is going nuts, the CDC failed to issue its “Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report” for the first time since 1960 (MMWR is where the medical community first was alerted to what came to be known as AIDS), hundreds of seditionists and insurrectionists were pardoned or had their sentences commuted, Trump seems bent on taking FEMA – an agency whose mission to is to care for neighbors in need – and turn it into a quid-pro-quo program where friends are helped and others left to cry alone, and now the dismissal of 17 inspectors general.
And that’s just for starters.
On this feast day of Robert Burns, one need not wonder what Burns would have to say about Mar-a-Lago and its Lord. In his poem “My Father was a Farmer,” he lays out his own set of values,
My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O,And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O;He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne’er a farthing, O;For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O.
Hmmm . . . one’s worth is not based on the size of your purse? “Unpossible!” says the Lord of Mar-a-Lago.
Later in the poem, after describing how his efforts to improve his financial situation were less than successful, and unmoved by his lack of money or what society says his values should be, he says this about himself:
But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in his palace, O,Tho’ Fortune’s frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice, O:I make indeed my daily bread, but ne’er can make it farther, O:But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.
“Unpossible!” says the Lord of Mar-a-Lago. “How can you possibly be cheerful without money?”
The final stanza makes the contrast between Burns and the Trump-like Lords of his day abundantly clear:
All you who follow wealth and power with unremitting ardour, O,The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther, O:Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O,A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O.
What is delightful about this poem is that Burns wasn’t speaking metaphorically, but autobiographically. Burns was a working farmer-poet, never wealthy himself, and oft in need of additional income. Writing poetry definitely helped, as various parts of Edinburgh’s High Society oooh-ed and ahhh-ed over his writing and were willing to pay for it.
But even so, Burns had no problem taking aim at their pretentiousness. His famous “Address to a Haggis” (recited far and wide at Burns celebrations each year on this day) is as much a take down and those who adore over-wrought fancy cooking as it is praise of a peasant dish. Burns writes about this sheep’s stomach filled with sheep’s lung, heart, and liver, along with oats, onions, and all manner of spices and herbs, as if it were the finest French cuisine, only to slam those who prefer “fine dining” over hearty fare like the haggis. Haggis, like honest working folks, has substance and nourishment; those who love their fine cuisine he calls devils, as their meal is an inappropriately thin plate of unhealthy trash.
My family roots are German, not Scottish, but “Address to a Haggis” resonates strongly with me. My late grandmother was a delightful baker with a heart of hospitality and always ready to put together a quick coffee cake if guests dropped by. As a daughter of the depression, she had a myriad of ways to stretch her ingredients and her budget. One of the favorite dishes she made that I only ever had at her home was a beef stew using beef heart and tongue, rather than more common cuts of beef. She could get the heart and tongue for next to nothing (or simply for nothing, as cattle-ranching parishioners who knew how badly her pastor-husband was paid would save these for her as an extra gift), and she turned them into a thing of beauty. Alas, she is gone and the recipe with her, though I can still smell it in my mind and taste it in my soul.
On this feast of Robert Burns, in these troubling times when all seems adrift, Burns’ injunction to prefer “a cheerful honest-hearted clown” to folks like the Lord of Mar-a-Lago seems all the more necessary. I invite you to fill your glass with a beverage of your choice, because it’s time to ding.
The roots of dinging at our home go back more than two decades . . .
It started on a Friday when The Kid was not yet two, and we had finally sat down to dinner at the end of a long week for all of us. Mrs. Dr. Peterr raised her glass, I raised mine, and in a quiet, exhausted, but happy voice she smiled at me and said “To the weekend.” “To the weekend,” I echoed, touching my glass lightly against hers. Then, from the high chair, a little voice chimed in loudly and proudly, punctuating each word with a swing of his sippy cup: “To. The. Weekend! Now ding with me!”
And so it is at our house, especially on Fridays: We have to ding.
The beverages vary widely, from glass to glass and from day to day – juice, wine, water, sparkling cider, beer, milk, scotch, etc. – and so do the toasts. Some days, we toast each other; other days we toast something great that has happened. Some days, the toasts bring happy thoughts, and on other days, they carry a note of sadness and loss. Some toasts are short, simply naming the person or thing for which we are grateful. Others are longer, and take on Dr. Seuss-like rhymes and rhythms.
The one thing they have in common, though, is a sense of shared gratitude. Mark Twain put it like this: “To get the full value of joy, you must have someone to divide it with.” Science fiction writer Spider Robinson takes Twain one step further: “Shared joy is increased; shared pain is lessened.”
It’s Friday, it’s the end of a rollercoaster of a week, it’s five o’clock somewhere, and we’ve got to ding.
Today is Saturday, not Friday, and it has indeed been a long, long week, so we’ve got to ding. With all that has happened in the last seven days, I can’t help but think that Robert Burns is lifting a glass of Scotch Drink with us today. So fill your own glass, raise it high, and join me in a toast.
Ladies and gentlemen,
. . . friends whom I know well and friends I have only just met,
. . . friends who love to chat and silent friends who lurk in the corners,
. . . friends who agree and friends who argue,
. . . friends who challenge my thinking and friends who confirm it,
. . . friends who trust each other with their open, honest ideas,
. . . friends who come here looking for conversation to get their thoughts in order:
To the poet,
. . . the farmer,
. . . the bard of Scotland,
. . . Robert Burns!
*DING*
Please offer your own toasts, your own odes to the foods of your hearts, and your own perspectives on the values of Lord of Mar-a-Lago and his ilk in the comments.
What a delightful message. There is still space, indeed always space for gratitude, even in troubled times. Thank you Dr. Peter.
*DING*
Dear Dr. Peterr –
In our home, we say “chin, chin!” in lieu of “ding”, and the newest member of our crew was taught how to join in ere she reached the age of two years.
So chin chin to you with gratitude for your explicatory epistle on the marvelous resistance of Bishop Mariann Budde.
A special “ding” to Dr Peterr. A man of the cloth who quotes Spider Robinson is a fine man indeed. Ding. Or as we say in our house, “tink.”
“Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you”
Nice reference by Burns to the largely now-forgotten giant silver mine in Bolivia. From the 16th to the 18th centuries, it was the Spanish Empire’s largest silver mine. It remains an environmental disaster, as do many other hard-rock mines, including large Roman ones in Spain.
And doesn’t that whole stanza sound like Burns wrote it this past week, with Trump in mind?
Ding. Ding. To another national treasure. We need your writings now more than ever.
“My Father Was a Farmer” is fine as a poem. People can call it a poem. However, it was meant to be sung. Those are fourteener ballad lines. It is definitely a song, and I am drunk on imaginary whiskey, so I am getting my guitar. One practice and then this one for real. I repeated a verse at the end to balance out of a pickle I put things in.
My Father Was a Farmer
Happy Burns Night!
Cheers!
Thanks for this encouraging post, Peterr!
Since you say your family roots are German, I dare to comment on your Spider Robinson quote by adding the German adage: “Geteiltes Leid ist halbes Leid. Geteilte Freude ist doppelte Freude.”
Ding, cheers, skål, prost, … and ding again!
Probably unnecessary for readers here, but ….
“clown” is used by Burns in its now older sense, meaning, basically, a peasant or a rustic.
Thanks, you made me smile today! Flann O’Brien’s poem “The Workman’s Friend” is a nice follow up to Burns. ;-)
From one of the “silent friends who lurk in the corners,” DING! And bless you for the light you bear.
You’re out now, so no need to remain silent!
Here’s to us, to who we’ve been
And who we are; no need to shout!
Now let us try and catch the wind
To bring this Ship of State about!
Apologies to Mr Leitch
Raising a couple fingers of Tomatin to this crew. Slàinte Mhath!
(Drinking from a tumbler I bought at the Hill of Tara 5 years ago!)
I’ll be having some Ardbeg — a smoky and tasty whisky from Islay — after dinner this evening.
Thank you for the deep humanity you bring to this place.
Lagavulin did me for smoke, and nearly for whisky altogether though I persist and even still like a noticeable whiff of smoke. Ding indeed!
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To the radicals and rabble-rousers who stay true the root of Jesus’ Gospel, no matter where the wind blows.
To the Bishops Edgar Buddes, the Rev Martin Luther and Coretta Kings, the Walt and Lois Reiners, Rev. Karl and Esther Lutzes, Rev. Dave Kerats, and Pastors Greg Joneses.
To the Frederick Douglases and Sojourners Truths, the Marcy Wheelers and Peter and Mrs R’s and all who call out power and naked emperors!
To all those known and unknown heralds of truth and Christ’s eternal flame of radical love and justice, a ding!
Sincerely,
Fresh Veg, an apostate Lutheran (LCMS), who had the good luck of having some rabble rousing mentors as a young adult at uni.
Welcome!
I have a hunch I may know some of those rabble rousing mentors you mentioned, as the ones I know have had quite an influence on a lot of former LCMS folks.
Peterr,
I’ve long had an inkling that you might know some of the same folks in the church who mentored me (and many others). Many a post of yours I’ve had an urge to respond to, but held off till now.
I deeply appreciate your commentary which always reminds me of the power of an active faith directed by the heart of the gospel.
That last line clinches it. I’m sure I know some of those rabble rousers, and I count many of them as friends as well.
Glad you have you come out of the corners and joined the conversations. Don’t be shy about chiming in on other posts!
Cheers always friends!
To all my teachers, but especially John Derwent, Sister Mary Benedict, Brother Daniel, Brother Rosaire, and Stanley Schwartz, I wish you all the joy your efforts gave me!
(Raises a cappuccino) Ding!
A cappuccino, at this time of day?
Any time is good for a cappuccino. But your post seems better suited to a good single malt.
No offense to Ed, but any time is good for a single malt.
My tastes are simple: 12-yr-old Macallan.
earlofhuntingdon says:
January 25, 2025 at 9:49 pm
My sis goes for Laphroaig. When I last bought some for her – before 2019 – it was about $40 a bottle.
It’s about twice that now.
Not a brown liquid drinker but my Irish husband is. He drinks scottish Oban. My beloved Irish O’Donnell grandfather always welcomed me in mornings with his greeting ” Lettuce, turnip and Pea”.
A wee dram of Dalmore for Burns and the resistance. Can’t let this become a habit !!
Thanks for this post, Peterr. If I were at home I would break out the Glenmorangie and raise a glass to you and the poet-farmer Burns. I’ll do that tomorrow when I’m within reach of my own liquor cabinet.
Unfortunately I’m visiting and I’m afraid to touch my SIL’s Monkey Shoulders for this purpose, which deserves something better than his everyday blended whisky.
Ding you tomorrow!
Nice to see a nod to Glenmorangie, made in my part of the world, although it’s not my favourite malt. I’m partial to a Dalwhinnie Gold myself.
Slainte mhath to yourself, Peterr, and everybody else here
First, Peterr, I wanted to thank you for an inspired article on the Right Reverend Bishop Budde. Both you and she are treasures.
Second I offer my toast and a cyber DING from my scotch glass to yours – in my case a snifter of Balvanie Portwood, the finest whiskey I have ever tasted.
Thank you for your remembrance of the great Robert Burns who would have been delighted to have someone like Trump around to satirize. It seems to me that satirical stories about the ridiculous Trump myth are our best defense of his madness.
Taking a fool seriously is only proof that you, yourself are foolish. Some truths are both obvious and uncommonly recognized.
I copied (with minor edits for clarity) this from a reddit post by a former Republican turned progressive–I think it fits on this page.
“It began with me being deprogrammed from my LGBT hatred with my time in the military; then I deprogrammed myself from extremist radio/media when (having an ancient history degree at this point) I listened to Glenn Beck say some of the most idiotic drivel about the “fall” of Rome I’d ever heard and realized he had a less than zero knowledge on the subject and that all these talking heads were non experts blathering about things they didn’t begin to understand; then I took some courses on Civil Rights History and discovered how much the right downplayed the horrors of black history; then I took some physical anthropology and realized anyone who doubted evolution was an actual moron; then I took courses in anthropogenic climate change and realized the same; and finally I went to a seminar on abortion and listened to speakers discuss what happens when access is restricted.
“My parents and right wing media in general had “prepped” me to be ready for the eeeevil liberals in college to brainwash me. But I quickly became enamored with the depths of knowledge my professors had and challenged myself to never drop or skip a class and to instead study what was discussed with an entirely open mind.
“So it was a willful choice at various turns to step away from extremist thinking.”
Beef heart. We ate so much as kids, after my parents divorced. Our father just disappeared, and our mother, scrambling for several years too makes ends meet, came up with some pretty wonderful meals from the stuff most butchers threw away.
Beef tongue is really a delicacy, when smoked and pickled, something I ate a lot of as a boy with very hot mustard (and would now if it appeared) but after that divorce the opportunity hasn’t come up.
This stopped me cold: the CDC failed to issue its “Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report” for the first time since 1960.
Has anyone here eaten haggis? I don’t think I could handle it. Bratwurst is the closest I’ll come.
Peterr,
Methinks we will be in great need of your contributions to sanity in these trying times already upon us and not yet passed.
Not only do we seem to share a given name – Peter – but German roots.
My paternal line is from what is often referred to as Alsace Lorraine but perhaps more accurately Trassem. Paternal GF immigrated in late 1890s as did his wife from Essen though they met and married in Minonk, IL having all of their children there, including my father, before migrating to Miami, FL in the early 1920s.
I have a pdf of the “Familienbuch 1675-1900″ of Zwishech Saar und Leuk” by Klaus Sieren covering Freudenburg, Weiten, Trassem, and Kastel if of interest.
https://books.google.com/books/about/Zwischen_Saar_und_Leuk.html?id=M7auSAAACAAJ
Pete
seems we are a nation of immigrants; at least, that’s what we learn in elementary school.
Now that Donald is in position to declare who is, scare quotes, a ‘true American,’ is it possible that his fury against immigrants has something DARVO to do with his draft-dodging ancestor’s having been deported back to Germany as an undesirable alien?
In our Norwegian/Slovakian combined family, we use the toast – *TING*. It’s more onomatopoeic than anything from when our kids were little. The Lord of Mar-a-Lago is never happy – have you ever seen him seriously belly laugh like Presidents Biden or Obama did? He is incapable of it. People like him know the cost of everything and the value of nothing. Robert Burns knew what was truly of value in this world!
Time for an eye-opener with you all! Ding!
Peterr,
Holy Willie’s Prayer comes to mind apropos Trump, Vance, Hegeseth et al as a nip of Glen Fiddich washes down The Haggis!!
I drink a toast to Abbey and to bmaz. Hope to see you again sometime. And to Eureka who I will always remember. And to dear Fanone!
Adding:
At the end of this interview by Pamela Brown she asked Michael Fanone, “What do you say to what Trump claims is that: ‘The election is a referendum on this, the country has moved on, they don’t care, they elected me anyway?’ “
Fanone responds, “I absolutely agree with President Trump.”
“The election, in part, was a referendum on January 6th. And that most Americans, they don’t care. Because the characteristics that many of us have come to associate with ourselves as Americans…things like honor, courage, integrity, are all bullshit. They’ve been replaced by things like selfishness, self-centeredness, and cowardice. And that’s how we came to have Donald Trump as our President.”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_BXmMYsbjtw
And I have to add that I found the same to be true 30 years ago when I had my own encounter with white supremacist militia members and “good” Christian citizenry and government officials. Both Democrats and Republicans. They were pathetic then and still are to this day. It’s all veneer. All facade. They are so accustomed to spewing their framing that they have hidden their true selves from themselves. I believe some people like that are even here, on emptywheel.
If people actually walked the talk, they would be saving their money (in whatever increments they can, large or small) for future litigation instead of bragging about alcoholic beverages, fancy coffee, vacations, or how thrifty they or their families once were. We live in The Age of Narcissism. All of us.