There's always a first time!

There are a number of things in life about which I had very definite ideas early in life. When I was fourteen years old, I decided never to wear a vest again. I threw away the one I was forced to wear and my mother never knew. I have stuck to that decision.

Another was that I would never ever eat porridge. It looked too disgusting for words. The colour was enough to make me avert my eyes. That's not to say that I did not make the parental sacrifice of cooking it for my children's breakfast, if they wanted it. Just as I made them baked beans and offered them tomato ketchup on demand, even though I ate neither. But, never say never!

Porridge is good for lowering cholesterol, they claim, and since I needed to do that, I decided to try it. First attempts never got to my mouth, since the easy microwave option, exploded in every direction, leaving revolting splashes in every nook and cranny. Tried a saucepan on the cooker and apart from the fact that it stuck solid to the saucepan, I got a spoonful down. Tried a second spoonful with some added fresh fruit and found it more and more to my taste. And now, I am addicted to it.

But haggis. No. You have to draw the line somewhere. Then a few weeks ago, we were given one and having been prevented from slinging it straight in the dustbin by Peter who wanted, at least, to try it, I cooked it as specified. Encased in a tough plastic (?) skin, I dished it up and then proceeded to cut then end off with scissors. Whereupon, it squelched out like some horrible pre-historic worm! No option but to continue cutting, to release this brown mass - or should it be mess? - on to the serving dish.

No neeps and tatties but carrots and salad. In for a penny, in for a pound. We tried it. Delicious! The left overs we had the next day!