For the Love of Archibald

I wasn't sure what to expect gastronomically from my pilgrimage to Scotland. I had hoped there would be some form of cuisine that was not saturated in starch (this was the land of the deep-fried Mars bar, after all). What I did not expect to find was a talented Italian cook. His name is Archibald Clark, and he is, in his own words, my mad, mental, Celtic cousin.

Archie is the kind of person who will very comfortably speak his mind with little concern for the impact of the truth on others. I took to him immediately. His effusive charm and hospitality were a delight, even while he was grilling me about my knowledge of Scotland's military history. Thank goodness I had seen Braveheart. While showing me his study and some old family photographs he handed me a piece of paper to read -- it was his Mensa membership certificate. When I asked him his IQ, he nonchalantly replied, "Oh, somewhere around 180." After I removed my jaw from the floor I tried to picture him at a Mensa gathering, and couldn't quite get there. Archie is in a league of his own. By the end of the night he had me in tears of joy and laughter with his family stories, a few bawdy jokes and a serenade with his guitar.

But I truly entered a state of reverence when he showed me his herb garden and cook's kitchen. Everything was laid out meticulously, and all ingredients and gadgets were in immediate reach. I beamed with anticipation as I watched the pot simmering on the stove, the casserole bubbling in the oven. What was in store for our palates?

"Tomahto soup." Crafted by hand from fresh tomahtoes and hand-picked herbs. Does this man know how to win a girl over or what? I'm not sure what they do (or don't do) to the vegetables in Europe, but they are always far tastier than the ones I find here in the States. The soup was gorgeous, and I eagerly awaited the second course. It was a savory casserole of chicken tenderly bathed in a red sauce with spices and cheese. Heaven. The dish was a spontaneous creation, and I formed an even deeper bond with him as I discovered his cooking technique mirrored my own: open the fridge, take a look around and get busy with what you find.

So from this side of the ocean, cousin Archibald, I salute your passion for cooking. May your tomahto and potahto plants be plentiful this year, and may you continue to share your cooking secrets with me. I lovingly look forward to our next meal.

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A Trip to the Chippy

I knew it would be a challenge to maintain my low-carb regimen while in Scotland, especially given that most menus comprise battered protein and starch with a side of peas. However, I was not about to blow a 13-lb. weight loss. At least, this was my frame of mind before I discovered the glory of fish and chips.

Since returning from my trip, I have decided that I will never again eat this dish anywhere but in Scotland. Not only will this ensure dedication to my regimen, but it will guarantee that my vision of the perfect fried combination will never be tainted.

A trip to the "Chippy" is a decadent treat, and my experiences fulfilled every promise my mother had made about the delight of fried fish and potatoes wrapped in paper. The fish is so fresh it flakes apart as the batter reverberates with a crisp crackle, and the chips -- oh my. I have always had a weakness for French fries, but these are like no other. It would be an affront for the Chippy to use frozen potatoes, so these are made fresh, and deep-fried to a mesmerizing golden hue.

Thankfully I managed to exercise enormous amounts of self-discipline, and kept to a mere three journeys to the Chippy over a two-week period. I also put a few miles on my running shoes to work off the carb overload, but the joy of eating my new favorite dish was worth every step. And did I mention the malt vinegar?

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Off to the Land of Haggis

Well, there's no turning back now. The tickets have been purchased and the relatives warned. Brother Gargantua will not be traveling with us to Scotland, so the Queen has released the emergency stockpile of food. We received a lovely letter from her.

I can't believe it has taken me 32 years to visit the land of my mother's birth, but I am overjoyed that the time has come. Mary Margaret is eagerly anticipating fish and chips wrapped in newspaper, pastries and real Cadbury chocolate. Her childhood nickname was "Porky," so that should tell you all you need to know. I still don't understand how she ended up being a size 4. But I'm not bitter.

In preparation for our trip (and the research for my book) we have been unsuccessfully trying to recreate our family's version of the Scottish "clootie" dumpling. For those overcome with curiosity, a Scottish clootie is a cloth, in this instance a pillowcase that was used to encase the dumpling while cooking. Odd, I know, but they are a damned ingenious bunch.

I tried comparing our recipe with others on the internet, but it seems that each person in Scotland has his or her own version. I have never seen such a variance in ingredients, particularly for such a complicated creation. Some use stout, others treacle syrup, others molasses, and some even use coffee (?). It seems that our problem may lie in the suet, which needs to be of the purest pearly white and taken from the area just around the pig's kidneys. However, despite shaking down several butchers and crafting some shady deals in the alleyway behind the local supermarket, we have been unable to find just the right stuff. I'm hoping someone from the Forbes clan can help us solve this dilemma. Perhaps we should be using Egyptian cotton.

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