Scotch Broth—A Queen's Dish

Press, Volume CVI, Issue 31316, 11 March 1967, Page 5

Scotch Broth—A Queen's Dish

(Specially written for “The Press” by

GARDNER MILLER)

QUEEN VICTORIA who was very fond of her highland home, Balmoral Castle, frequently visited the cottages of the highland folk when out for an airing in her pony carriage.

The story is told, and I believe it, that on entering a cottage one morning, she found the good wife busy preparing a pot of Scotch broth.

On asking what was in it, the good woman said: “There’s barley intuit, and peas intuit, and cabbage intuit—” “But,” interrupted the Queen, “what’s ‘intuit’?” Again she was told, “there’s barley intuit,” etc. Then it dawned on the Royal Lady “intuit” meant “in it.” The word “intuit” was just the soft-spoken word of the sing-song dialect of the highland peasantry. A dish of broth was given the Queen and she enjoyed it. No-one who has ever tasted real Scotch broth can ever again be satisfied with substitutes.

There’s a flavour and a satisfaction that comes with it “fit for a Queen" that you can’t get in any tinned or packaged mixture that flaunts a coloured picture and strains language to entice you to buy.

Real Broth It is because of what’s “intuit” and how it is made that Scotch broth has attained its proud place as one of the two national dishes —the other is porridge—of the ancient and lovely land of Scotland. The sassenachs have no tradition of broths and soups. True they produce delectable dishes of meat and salads and cakes.

The sassenachs are grand people but they really don’t know how to make the real broth. From the time when the broth simmered over the peat fires right up to the present when the stove has taken the place of the peat fire, Scotland has been famous for its broth, curing of fish and baking. Have you ever tasted Scotch oatcakes? Not the package ones, but the large oatcakes called “farles” made on the hot kitchen range? Broth must be served hot. It must be well stirred, for the ladle brings up a lot of material, and the mixture is thick. It is customary for enough to be cooked for two or three days.

Second day’s broth (or kail) is delicious, but you must be careful not to make the lid of the pot shut tightly. If you don’t leave a space for air you may get some tummy trouble. Some like broth the third day running, but I was never brave enough to try.

Meat, which forms the second course of the meal, is cooked in the broth.

When fished out of the pot the cooked meat—generally mutton—is eaten with boiled potatoes and is a feast for those who love good food well cooked. The broth I have just mentioned is called barley broth;

but there is another delicious broth called sheep’s head broth. The second course of this broth consists of flesh of the sheep’s head, especially the tongue, cooked in the broth and then served with boiled potatoes.

The fame of sheep's head broth goes throughout the

length and breadth of Scotland It is frequently on the bill of fare in many London hotels. “Could kail het again” simply means broth that has been heated up. Nothing wrong with that; but it is a term hurled at, of all men, ministers of the kirk. In Scotland there are ser-mon-tasters in almost every kirk—and long may their breed last. They think nothing of marking in the margin of the Bible the day the minister preached from a particular text. Sometimes they will indicate the “pints” of the sermon, meaning, of course, the divisions of it.

When the minister preaches an old sermon these sermontasters are quick to renjark: “Cauld kail het again” (cold broth warmed up). There is no reason why a minister shouldn’t preach on

a theme he has already handled, but a minister who cannot put a new tail on an old sermon is just plumb lazy. There was in Glasgow an old kirk called the kail-kirk. It was the name from the custom of providing hot broth (kail) between the two Sunday services. In those days the usual Sunday services were at 11 a.m. and 2 p.m. instead of the parishioners, going home—homes generally were a good distance from the kirk—this delightful custom was begun for them—and was greatly appreciated.

Love Of Kirk This old kirk was situated in a grim part of Glasgow, the docks. The congregation consisted largely of highlanders who had come south to the city to earn a living. They were policemen, porters, dockers and factory and foundry workers. There were also many servant lassies. All of them had brought to the roaring city their love of the kirk and its services. The dish of broth between the services was not only welcome for itself but it also

brought a wee whiff of their highland homes. Highlanders are always nostalgic. I frequently mixed with them on a Saturday night. They were very lonely people. The men wore balmorals (a round cap) while the women had shawls round their shoulders; in cold weather the shawl covered the head.

There was invariably an old highland piper who walked slowly up and down the line of people playing tunes that would tear the heart out of you and wet your face with tears.

There was little or no talk among the listeners when the old piper came down the line offering his beribboned balmoral for a copper; he was never refused.

Sometimes a whispered word would be said asking him to play some beloved piece, reminding them of their little isles and their mist-shrouded mountains. And these were the folk who would be at the kirk the following day, and over a bowl of Scotch broth would exchange news and gossip. Scotch broth not only sticks to your ribs; it also awakens memories of the days of auld lang syne.