I’ve discovered the identity of the haggis donor. It’s a friend, a priest with a perverse culinary sense (when I suggested to him that he should avoid a pungently aromatic cheese called Stinking Bishop, he ran out, bought some, and pronounced it divine). I don’t know whether he’ll consider it a blessing or a curse, but I intend to have him over to dinner when we cook the haggis. My wife says, “Er, you’re eating that one by yourselves.” Have we any haggis lovers among Corner readers? How would you suggest preparing the thing? The haggis company sent along Robt Burns poem, “To a Haggis,” which I suppose we’ll have to recite over the bloody thing as it lies in repose atop my table. But I will have to throw in some choice observations taken from “The Wit and Wisdom of Groundskeeper Willie.”