by: Gordon Graham
I absolutely despise airline food. As a statement, that isn’t very original, I know. However, the majority of people will grudgingly accept the form of attempted murder the airlines try to (poorly) pass off as food. At the end of the day, they’re hungry and the (sometimes) steaming pile of sludge (most reminiscent of ogre shit) in a dish in front of them at least loosely resembles food.
The point of this mini-rant on airline “food” is that during my six-and-a-half hour flight to Scotland, the airline tried to kill me twice with one of these plastic wrapped abominations, both of which I declined. As a result I was utterly famished when we hit the tarmac at Glasgow Airport. Thankfully, my mother and grandpa – whose 80th birthday is the reason for my pond jump – were there to meet my brothers and I at the airport with a family welcome and a promise of my grandpa’s specialty when we got back to my grandparents’ place: The Fry Up.
The essential ingredient to a Fry Up is the roll: About the size of a Kaiser bun, they are so soft and fluffy it’s like eating a cloud of wheat and you feel like they could only have been baked in God’s good oven, or the devil’s damn good oven, depending on your outlook. Once said-heavenly buns were secured, then the sacred act of Fry Up could begin: Square shaped pork sausage patties, black pudding (basically cow’s blood and oats in a circular patty), and piece after piece of lovely, oh so salty, Scottish Bacon.
Scottish Bacon you ask? Well, Scottish bacon is back bacon, thinly sliced, with an extra bit on the end. The absence of which in Canada boggles the mind, because like a massage with a happy ending, it only makes a good thing better.
Regardless, once the framework of our flavour mansion was constructed, we then hung the drapes, so to speak, with Brown Sauce (HP sauce) or Tomato Sauce (take a guess) and a fried egg. In my airline-induced state of famine, I must have scarfed down at least three of these monstrosities of mouth-watering goodness before the first inklings of the meat sweats began to set in and my shame told me to stop.
After the hunger had been sated, and the meat sweats under control, I had a nice little visit with my cousin and her 18-week-old son Luca, I then headed off to my Auntie and Uncle’s house in the Highlands.
About six years ago my older brother and I went on a yearlong excursion to Europe, during which we stayed extensively (maybe too extensively for their liking) at my Auntie and Uncle’s. During my time there, I learned that my Auntie prides herself on the quality of food she serves, and rightfully so. As my brother and I travelled north on our return trip, Ancient Highland chieftains were rolling in their earthly graves, green with envy (and some decay) at the thought of the meals we would be enjoying.
We met my Auntie at Ballathie Estate, a hunting retreat for the rich and famous where she works as the all-powerful administrative goddess of the estate’s main hotel and the acres of gorgeous woodland and riverside surrounding it. When we arrived she had some last-minute things to attend to around the place before we left. No doubt some errant serf had misplaced the cutlery for the Queen’s luncheon and therefore deserved a sound flogging. Or maybe it was paperwork. I didn’t ask. Regardless, once she had finished her duties, we jumped back in the car and headed to Kirriemuir, the small town in the north where she lives with my Uncle.
After the initial exchange of pleasantries, we headed to the backyard and my Uncle fired up the barbeque. That night the holy flame of Barbecue was put to some lovely Roe Deer Venison sausages and authentic Angus beef burgers, from the very region that gives its name to the beef. The sausages were sweet with a hint of musky oats, not gamey in the slightest, and the Angus burgers were thick and juicy, slightly sweet as well, but just as “beefy”-tasting as a burger should be. There were also some side dishes, but as they weren’t authentically Scottish, they don’t get a mention here.
For dessert we had a healthy serving of Mackie’s Ice Cream, a local brand which uses milk and double cream to make the creamiest of ice creams, and this was topped with strawberries and raspberries picked locally that day by the steady hand of Polish and Czech migrant workers.
The night’s digestif was a delicious scotch liqueur called Atholl Brose, which mixed honey, oats and scotch to create a delicious flavour medley that began with the sharp bite of scotch but was then tempered by the smooth sweetness of honey. Baby-sleep inducing, needless to say.
The next evening, after a day of shopping and round-about-town-ing, we were back at my aunt’s for another feast.
During our trip into town that day we’d stopped at the fishmonger’s to pick up some hot smoked salmon my Auntie had been raving about, which did not disappoint. In addition to the salmon, we had a steaming bowl of unbelievably soft Ayeshire yellow potatoes heaped with melted butter and salt, and not starchy in the slightest, as well as a lovely mixture of veggies roasted in olive oil and butter, with a hint of dill. The salmon also had a touch of dill, along with garlic powder made from locally grown garlic, and was slightly browned on the outside, just the way I like it, the dill and the garlic bringing the flavour well beyond its standard scrumptiousness.
It was yet again a heavenly meal beyond compare.
The remainder of my meals in Scotland were not particularly Scottish in any way, so I leave you with the image of a satisfied Canadian, comfortably seated in a nice wooden chair, sipping scotch liqueur, and enjoying the sun going down behind the heather blanketed hills of the Scottish highlands.