Haggis and Stag Parties.

When I left Canada 2 and a half months ago, I understood haggis was sheep meat cooked in the sheep’s stomach casing. “Weird and kinda gross.” I thought.
Last night as I ate the grisly looking mixture I thought it was ground up sheeps meat cooked in the sheeps stomach and tasted like badly made hamburger. “Not bad, but I’m not a fan.” I thought.
Today, just for the heck of it, I googled “haggis.” Wikipedia gleefully informed me that I had eaten the liver, heart, and lung of a sheep with spices and it was all cooked in the sheep’s stomach casing. Okay, hold up.
Yuck. I’m still recovering from when dad gave us stew and told us it was “a real hearty stew” and then 6 years later we found out it was moose heart. And now I just willingly ate the organs of a sheep. I don’t know what to think.
It’s wasn’t bad, it was just a weird texture. And I mean, it could have been worse. I could have eaten the brain, or kidneys, or hoof. I’m being completely irrational, I know, but as a girl who is content with chicken or beef steak, eating other animals is foreign and weird to me. And I think to much. About food at least. Oh well, at least I can say I’ve had haggis and now I also know what’s in it.
I just remembered I have had worse. At my dry grad my friend and I entered the “fear factor” room. I don’t remember weather it was stupidity or adrenaline or confusion of how I’d actually made it through high school, but I ate dog food. We did, I mean. That’s cow liver, tongue, kidney, eye, and who knows what else. It was all cooked just enough to not kill us and it was not seasoned because despite what the iams commercials say, dogs don’t really care how their meat tastes. So that was gross, but we did get a cool bracelet.
Yup. We ate half cooked meat for a piece of hemp jewelry. Girls.

After the haggis experience, my friend, Tiffany, and I walked around Edinburgh trying to find where it was hiding its famed nightlife. We finally asked someone walking by and he invited us to the bar that he and his friends were occupying down the street. We joined him and found that he was with a stag party for his friend and that the bar also had two other groups of guys, apparently stag parties as well. There were maybe five girls in the place. Despite the lack of dancing and overload of British and Scottish beer bellies, we stayed and chatted with random guys we met. It was fun. They would assume we were both American and then they would ask ” where are you from?” And Tiffany would say “I’m from Texas and Sarah is from Canada.”
“British Columbia.” I told them.
“What?” They all questioned.
“I’m from British Columbia, Canada, the way Tiffany is from Texas, USA. Canada has provinces, it’s not just a blob were all non USA North Americans congregate. Tiffany is from texas; Im from British Columbia.”

And I wonder why guys stare at me when we go out. The drunker I get, the bigger words I use, and the more logical I become. Thankfully, everyone just nodded and went back to discussing travels with Tiffany because she actually knows how to talk to people in bars. However, one very drunk man turned to me and said “I’ve been to British Columbia!”
“OH MY GOSH NO WAY NO WAAAY!” I sarcastically responded, not believing him.
“Yeah,” he continued. “I worked in Whistler during the 2010 Winter Olympics. Wanna hear my favourite canadian phrase?”
“Okay here goes.” He cleared his throat, and in an impressive canadian accent said “Eh there buddy, lets go grab some Tim Hortons Eh?”
At that, I burst into laughter, stepped back and people watched until we left to find a bus back to Inverkeithing.

And that’s all she wrote. The night was as lame as it sounds and by 2 o’clock I was snoozing away in my bed. Too soon, my alarm went off and I had to go make like 7 beds and clean rooms and then I escaped to the city.

Yesterday was the birthday of another sister of mine. She’s one of my favorites because she’s my only full sibling and from the way she survived our fights growing up, I think she’s almost invincible. She just turned 19 (party!!!) and so she went to Montana. (Umm….no party)
She is beautiful and talented and in the fall she’s going to Boston to study at a little music school called Berkley. Happy Birthday Elena!
She’s never had a birthday party and so I was beginning to plan one for next year. But, after looking at my Facebook messages from last night, I found that I told her “next year I will give you the best 20th birthday party ever but it’s going to be a surprise so now you have to forget.”

And I’m going to end this post by telling you all that the man sitting at the table across from me is in a leather jacket, a Hawaiian shirt, and has hair like Elvis. I’m not really sure what look he’s going for.
Have a wonderful afternoon world!
All my love,

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