It got cold last weekend—very cold—so when an invitation from dear friends to have Saturday dinner in front of their fireplace arrived, we jumped. You see, our house, much as we love it, has no fireplace and because it’s an old house with a historic pedigree, it never will. That’s a long and different story. So, yes, we’d love to come for dinner; what can we bring?

We’re town mice. Our friends are country mice who live right on the lovely little point where the East and West Forks of Langford Creek come together. That’s reason enough to venture out for dinner, but in winter, we don’t often go down to the dock to watch the sunset. But tonight, it’s the fireplace that draws us in; its glow warms us inside and out; the seasoned oak and cherry smells divine; the crackle punctuates our laughter. Throw in a delicious stew, a homemade cheesecake, and a few—don’t count!—bottles of wine and you’ll understand why we love to gather here.

Did I mention dogs? Two big, friendly, so-happy-to-see-you golden retrievers with some good years under their collars, the kind that jump up on the couch next to you, snuggle in, and let you rub their bellies after dinner. There’s just something about good dogs; better than blankets.

The women linger and chat at the table; the men talk quietly in front of the fire. There’s an upcoming adventure, a work-in-progress, a new car. Nothing too heavy to lift, no need to talk religion or politics. We’re all in the same little lifeboat.

Meanwhile, the fire in the grate goes through log after log, but no matter: there’s plenty of wood. Plus, there’s something atavistic and manly about poking a fire from time-to-time, whether it needs it or not. Plans get made; some may actually come to fruition, but even if they don’t, they help fill up a cold winter night. Up in the sky, a million stars are shining like shattered ice, but down here, in this snug room, all is calm and safe. The road ahead runs straight to the horizon.

It’s getting late. Time to go, but we really don’t want to break the spell. It’s hard to pry ourselves away: the fire, the dogs, the friends. We could stay and spend the night, but there’s something worthy about the idea of going home to meet tomorrow, even if home will be fireless and cold tonight.

I switched to water long ago, mindful of driving home late at night through stubble fields where deer are feeding. The ride back to town is comfortably quiet; we’re going slowly. Twice, I catch the gleam of our headlights trapped in deer eyes, but we each keep to our respective spaces. I like driving through this peaceful, midnight landscape and decide to take a backroad just to stretch the moment, make it last a minute or two longer.

Back home, we hurry upstairs to get under the covers. We talk quietly, mostly about what a wonderful evening it was, the food, the dogs, the friendship, and of course the fireplace. We fall asleep in the sweet remembrance of its warm and comforting glow.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer with a home in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine.

Two collections of his essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”) are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.com.

If you’re Scottish of either the home-grown or diaspora ilk, you surely know that January 25 is the birthday of Robert Burns, the National Bard of Scotland. Born on that day in the village of Alloway in Ayrshire in 1759, Rabbie (as he was known) was a pioneer of the Romantic movement in poetry. Many of his verses and songs were written in the Scots dialect which made his work accessible to many who don’t think much of any poetry written in English. He was the poetic voice of Everyman in Scotland, a scoundrel, a lover, a romantic who found poetry in the most common of things. One of his poems—Ode To a Louse—was written about a wee mite working its way into the hair of a woman seated in front of him in church.

To this day, Scots revere, extol, and on his birthday, celebrate Rabbie Burns. This year, my wee wife and I, along with two other dear friends of Scottish descent, decided to host our own version of a Burns Supper, a feast of Scottish traditional fare that includes neeps (mashed rutabaga), tatties (mashed potatoes), and, of course, haggis, every true Scots’ favorite dish. Oh, and one other thing: malt whisky, spelled without an “e” in Scotland and always served neat.

Haggis has a reputation it doesn’t deserve. Burns called it “the chieftain o’ the puddin’ race.” It’s made with minced lamb, oats, and all matter of seasoned innards, all wrapped and boiled in a sheep’s bladder. It tastes much better than it sounds. In Scotland, a haggis always includes bits of lung, but that’s not allowed over here so kidney is used instead. I can’t tell the difference. Our haggis was prepared out in Wisconsin by a company called Scottish Gourmet—no, that’s not an oxymoron—and shipped to us packed in ice. We purchased two versions: five pounds of traditional haggis and two pounds of a “royal” version made with venison and whisky. All we had to do was steam to reheat.

A Burns Supper is more than just dinner. There is great ceremony to accompany the repast. There is the Selkirk Grace (attributed to Burns), The Address to the Haggis, the humorous Toast to the Immortal Memory, and last but not least a rousing chorus of Auld Lang Syne, perhaps Burns’ most famous song. The highlight of the show comes when the haggis is brought to the host on a silver salver, piped in by yours truly, fairly compensated with a deep dram of whisky served in a quaich, a two-handled chalice which in my case has been handed down over many generations.

After dinner, the fun really begins. There is often dancing but, alas, we were pinched for space. We were expecting around forty people at our supper, but the final head count was (I think) fifty-two. Everyone had been asked to contribute a bottle of malt whisky which if unconsumed could be retrieved at the end of the night. I saw lots of bottles arriving but only a few departing.

It was a wonderful affair, more than worthy of a poet well known for his tendency to excess. Everyone, kilted Scots and Sassenachs alike, got into the spirt of the evening—or should I say the spirits of the evening. People not generally known for erudition and eloquence began speaking in a Highland brogue, trilling their “r”s and using lilting grammatical formulations that have not been heard on this continent for over two hundred years.

At the end of the evening, we (the hosts) looked at each other and said, “What have we done?” Apparently, we created a monster, a haggis-loving monster that now needs repeating next year and every year thereafter. We might cull the guest list, but I have a feeling we’ll end up enlarging it; as one happy guest said in departing, “Looks like you’re going to need a bigger boat!”

I’m awa’ but dinna fasch: I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer with a home in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. Two collections of his essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”) are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.com

It’s hard, writing a novel. There are so many things to take into consideration: the title; the names, physical descriptions, and backstories of the characters; the pace of the story; the plots and subplots; historical accuracy. Yesterday, I wanted one of my heroes to drive a Citroën 2CV—a deux chevaux—but the year was 1942 and the deux chevaux didn’t come into production until 1948 so my man had to drive a Fiat 500 Topolino instead; not nearly as good! And what about sex and violence? Sex and violence sell books and you’ll never get your novel turned into a movie starring Julia Roberts and Ryan Gosling if you don’t have at least a little sex or violence or both! I’m telling you: writing a novel is hard; it’s like being a one-armed juggler without a helmet!

It’s hard, writing a novel. Things keep getting in the way: going to the grocery store, making dinner, changing the laundry, taking out the trash, playing golf. Especially playing golf. Everybody thinks it’s easy writing a novel but it’s not. Life keeps coming at you head on and life isn’t always conducive to the discipline of writing a novel. I should know. I’ve started three and finished none.

It’s hard, writing a novel. People think you can write anywhere, anytime, but you can’t. The light’s not good here; this chair is uncomfortable; it’s too noisy; it’s too quiet. Some people think you can take your laptop to Starbucks so you can write your novel while drinking a no-foam latte, or they figure you can write while you’re on vacation, but is it really a vacation if you have to write while you’re on it? I don’t think so!

I’ve heard people say that writing a novel must be good therapy. I suppose there’s some truth to that because it’s kept me from committing homicide. So far.

Then there’s the question of money. There’s always the question of money. Unless, of course, you happen to be Danielle Steele, John Grisham, David Baldacci, Doctor Seuss, or any one of those other Philistines (not you, Doctor Seuss) who turn out bestsellers like Christmas fudge and make it look like it’s easy to write a novel. Maybe it is for them, but I am an artist. I walk a higher, narrower path.

It’s not easy, writing a novel. You can’t tell your friends what you’re working on because then they want to hear all about your novel but you don’t really want to talk about your novel because after all, you’ve started three and finished none and that’s not a very good track record. I realize these friends are just trying to be helpful and supportive, but let’s face it: writing is not a team sport. It’s the loneliness of the long-distance runner, a solitary pursuit. It’s the stuff of introspection, not Martini Night.

It’s hard, writing a novel. It’s relatively easy writing these Musings—it will be four years next week and I haven’t missed a deadline yet!—but my novel weighs on me like an elephant on my chest which is how people describe a heart attack. A novel is a heart attack, day after day after day.

It’s hard, writing a novel. My wife wants to know what I’m going to do today and I tell her I’m working on my novel and I know what’s she thinking: he’s going to sneak out and play golf or take a nap or watch the next episode of The Crown without me! She wants me to go get some real exercise. I tell her writing a novel is good exercise for my mind and she just stares at my belly.

I’m just saying: it’s hard, writing a novel. Ideas come screaming like a firetruck in the middle of the night when all I want to do is snuggle up next to my sweet baboo, but instead I have to get up quietly in the dark and go downstairs where it’s cold and then stare at my computer screen for an hour or two. I might as well go back to bed but I’ve just downed two cups of coffee while writing an entire paragraph so what’s the use?

Believe me: it’s hard, writing a novel. You try it. On second thought, don’t you dare: the competition is stiff enough as it is.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer with a home in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine.

Two collections of his essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”) are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.com.

Don’t miss the latest! You can subscribe to The Talbot Spy‘s free Daily Intelligence Report here.