Today is the feast of St. Andrew. This means there is a saltire hanging in my dining room, and day 1 of the novena under my belt.
My husband served haggis for dinner, with neeps and tatties alongside. (Safari would like for him to have served "needs" and "tattoos," but those did not appear at the table.) I usually make vegetarian haggis for dinner on the feast of St. Andrew, but this year he served up the mail-order canned haggis.
Mail-order canned haggis is about as good as you'd expect it to be, apparently. One of the surprising things about living in Scotland was the discovery that haggis is actually delicious, but something about the cannery + the USPS appears to deflate that particular surprise.
I didn't eat any mail-order canned haggis (possibly Freudian that I first typed "gaggis"), because I met one of my college roommates for dinner instead. She is crushing me in the roommate fitness contest -- I haven't worked out since the mayonnaise incident on Saturday -- but I love her anyway.
Today is also the last day of November, and this is the thirtieth post I have written in the past thirty days. PHEW, I finished.