My stomach immediately filed a formal complaint.
“That sounds . . . wonderful, Mrs. H. Very authentic.”
“Damn right it is!” she shouted back. “My great-great-grandmother’s recipe, passed down through the generations.”
I’d heard this story from Mike. Mrs. H was about as Scottish as a hot dog on the Fourth of July, but she’d been obsessed with her supposed Highland heritage ever since she’d taken one of those DNA tests and discovered she was 0.03 percent Celtic. She’d never actually been to Scotland, but that hadn’t stoppedher from transforming her house into a shrine to plaid and her kitchen into a battlefield where innocent vegetables and unidentifiable meat went to suffer.
In the living room, I found Mike, a black haired woman I assumed to be Sisi, and two guys I assumed were Omar and Matty arranged around a coffee table that looked like it had been attacked by someone with very strong opinions about bagpipes.
Mike was staring at a plate of something gray and lumpy with the expression of a man contemplating his own mortality. Sisi sat curled in the corner armchair, a cup of tea in her hands and a look of barely contained horror on her face. The dark-haired man, Omar, was prodding something brown and mysterious with his fork, while Matty—with his unmistakable platinum blond curls—was actually eating whatever Mrs. H had concocted, though his face suggested he was doing so through sheer willpower.
“Theo!” Mike hopped up and gave me an awkward hug while still holding his untouched plate. Sisi remained seated, a queen on her throne, though she did offer a tiny fingertip wave. “That’s Omar and Matty,” he said, pointing his plate at each man in turn.
Mrs. H chose that moment to appear from the kitchen with a platter that looked like evidence from a crime scene, complete with blood splatter from a sausagy, meat-like substance that clearly hadn’t rested long enough. “Traditionalneepsandtattiesto go with thehaggis!”
The collective silence was deafening.
“What exactly areneepsandtatties?” Mike asked weakly.
“Turnips and potatoes, you ungrateful little shit,” Mrs. H said cheerfully, plopping a serving onto his plate. “It’s good Scottish comfort food.”
Omar leaned over to whisper to Matty, “I think the turnips are still alive. They’re making sounds.”
“Can turnips talk? Or groan?” Matty whispered back.
“That’s just the seasoning,” Mrs. H said, her superhuman hearing exposing itself once again. “My secret blend of herbs and spices.”
I accepted a plate with the resignation of a man walking to his execution.
Thehaggislooked like it had been assembled by someone who’d heard a description of food but had never actually seen any. Theneepsandtattiesappeared to be engaged in some kind of chemical warfare with each other.
“Now then,” Mrs. H said, settling into what was clearly her favorite chair with obvious satisfaction, “who’s ready to plan some proper mischief for our boys’ wedding?”
The collective perking up was immediate.
“I have ideas,” Omar said with sinister glee.
“Of course you do,” Sisi said. “But first, we need proper gifts. None of this registry bullshit—anyone can buy a toaster. We need something meaningful.”
“I was thinking custom cutting boards,” Mike offered. “Shane could make them, so they’d be practical and sentimental.”
“That’s actually sweet,” Sisi said, looking surprised. “But why would Shane make a gift for his own wedding?”
“Fine,” Mike grunted. “Fair point.”
“What about a couples’ massage?” Omar suggested, his London accent making even the simplest idea sound like sexy algebra. “They’re both wound tighter than a nun’s corset.”
“Poor Mateo carries the weight of the world on his shoulders,” Mrs. H agreed. “Always has. A massage would do him good. And Shane works himself to death in that workshop.”
“I don’t know,” Mike replied. “We should do something that will last. A massage is great, but when it’s over, it’s over.”
Sisi nodded and raised her cup. “He’s right. This is too big to blow.”
“Too big to blow.” Matty snickered, clearly a seven-year-old boy who’d just heard a fart joke.
“Fine. I’ll do a little research, but we don’t have much time to decide, especially if whatever we choose has to be ordered or customized,” Omar said.
“Speaking of which”—Matty’s grin turned positively wicked—“shouldn’t we be planning some proper wedding shenanigans? It’s tradition.”
