The Sundanese Tragedy

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Kalau saya sampai bisa pergi ke Inggris, tepatnya ke Skotlandia, saya berharap ada yang mengundang saya ke pesta perayaan hari kelahiran Robert Burns. Mereka menyebutnya dengan Burns Night. Buat saya mengagumkan sekali, ada puisi khusus yang dibacakan,  dimana puisi tersebut ditujukan kepada makanan yang dibuat dari cacahan jeroan: hati, paru-paru, dan jantung domba. Sangat romantis untuk sesuatu yang sering dianggap biang kolesterol tinggi.

Nama makanan yang mendapat kehormatan diiris dengan dibacakan puisi itu adalah Haggis. Makanan tradisional Skotlandia. Cacahan jeroan itu dicampur dengan bawang, oatmeal, lemak dan garam. Sepertinya masih kurang rempah ya kalau buat orang Indonesia. Harusnya ditambah pala, merica, jahe, bawang putih, sereh, daun salam dan rempah lainnya. Hihi. Ditambah cabe jadilah rendang jeroan. Cacahan jeroan bernama Haggis ini dihidangkan dengan turnip dan kentang yang dihaluskan. Namanya disingkat menjadi nama sayang Neeps dan Tatties. Pada Robert Burns Night, hidangan makan malam biasanya Haggis, Neeps and Tatties, juga Cock A Leekie, yaitu sup ayam dengan leek. Dengan minum whisky.

http://www.visitscotland.com

Puisinya panjang juga, puisi ini adalah puncak acara pada Burns Supper. Oh ya Robert Burns yang lahir 25 Januari 1759 ini ngetop banget. Karyanya banyak sekali. Termasuk puisi Auld Lang Syne yang suka kita nyanyikan kalau acara perpisahan atau tahun Baru. Karena ganteng pada masanya, banyak sekali affair yang terjadi di masa hidupnya. Nama wanita yang ada dalam daftar hidupnya dan pernah melahirkan anak Robert Burns terhitung belasan. Kalau ada yang heran kenapa ada sastrawan yang bisa bikin hati gadis ketar-ketir, ya inilah salah satu contohnya, sudah terjadi sejak dulu kala kan. Puisi-puisi Burns sangat memperkaya khazanah perpuisian Skotlandia. Karyanya masih terus diperbincangkan dan dibahas. Khusus tentang jeroan yang tadi saya ceritakan, ini puisinya saya kopi dari halaman wikipedia. Address to a Haggis Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o the puddin’-race! Aboon them a’ ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye worthy 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 slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like onie 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; The 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 mak her spew Wi perfect scunner, Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view On sic a dinner? Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a 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 make 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 Address to a Haggis Translation Fair and full is your honest, jolly face, Great chieftain of the sausage race! Above them all you take your place, Stomach, tripe, or intestines: Well are you worthy of a grace As long as my arm. The groaning trencher there you fill, Your buttocks like a distant hill, Your pin would help to mend a mill In time of need, While through your pores the dews distill Like amber bead. His knife see rustic Labour wipe, And cut you up with ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like any ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm steaming, rich! Then spoon for spoon, the stretch and strive: Devil take the hindmost, on they drive, Till all their well swollen bellies by-and-by Are bent like drums; Then old head of the table, most like to burst, ‘The grace!’ hums. Is there that over his French ragout, Or olio that would sicken a sow, Or fricassee would make her vomit With perfect disgust, Looks down with sneering, scornful view On such a dinner? Poor devil! see him over his trash, As feeble as a withered rush, His thin legs a good whip-lash, His fist a nut; Through bloody flood or field to dash, O how unfit. But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his ample fist a blade, He’ll make it whistle; And legs, and arms, and heads will cut off Like the heads of thistles. You powers, who make mankind your care, And dish them out their bill of fare, Old Scotland wants no watery stuff, That splashes in small wooden dishes; But if you wish her grateful prayer, Give her [Scotland] a Haggis!