Hey Willie Wallacky, it's International Day!

There was a wee cooper that came from Fife
Nickety nackety noo noo noo.

Jings! It's no International Day already, is it? Awa'! As much as I would like to blog in the style of The Broons or Oor Wullie, I just can't keep it up. I seem to be heading down a wee Scottish blogging vein these days. Can't be helped with International Day coming right up behind Burns Night. I didn't get the email about International Day from the school until one of the other parents started talking to me about how she was "bagsying shortbread" as her international food, and when I didn't dive in with a "No way! That's not fair!" she realised that I hadn't been informed that we were going to have to bare our Scottish roots for all to see, and unleash our spectacular(ly bad) Scottish cooking on a class of innocent tiny children.

You'd think our house would be awash in tartan breeks (trousers) and sporrans, but we appeared to be a tartan-free zone much to my horror. The quest as revealed in the forwarded email was to send your child to school in their national dress, bearing some home-made foodstuffs from their home country (enough for all to try and with a comprehensive list of ingredients supplied). Not exactly easy, but I quickly Googled 'How the hell do I make a kilt when I can barely sew', and then swiftly chucked that idea and wondered whether I could pretend we were half-Greek and just wrap her in a sheet in some approximation of a toga, and sling a can of Irn-Bru into her rucksack. And I was more than disappointed to discover that there isn't an Edinburgh Woollen Mill in every town in the world. My mother does not believe this and says there MUST be one in Berlin - God knows, there's a market for it, they like their hellish-looking knitwear here too. And by Sunday night I would have run into any one of their 6 billion UK branches, launched a bag of cash at them and bought anything that I could have squeezed Orla into.

Instead though on Saturday I had to face the awful truth that I was going to have to make something. So I decided to make life as easy as possible for myself and take them literally, for I made her a national dress. My process leaves a lot to be desired. There were no patterns involved; just a lot of freehand drawing on the fabric (which I couldn't help thinking would make lovely cushions) with my expensive artists pastels (I appear to be lacking dressmakers chalk, but anyway, pastels come in much prettier colours) and confident if mis-judged cutting.

By Sunday, I had most of a smashing tartan dress that even Houdini would struggle to get on and off. Using my best imagination I decided I would construct *something* using multiple pieces of elastic and buttons that would have enough 'ping!' about it that a 4 year old could get all their wobbly awkward limbs through. I thought it was going to be a work of genius; there were moments when it was starting to look like something you could patent, and then after one shoulder contraption was finished I tried it on the reluctant model again and realised it looked crap. Plan S (by this point) was sew it up, hide the mess of elastic, and work on having one shoulder strap open with a button. I saved that until last night. Which was also the point I had saved to learn how to use the automatic button-holer on my sewing machine. 2 hours later I had it! Wey hey! Go me!

I daren't even tell you how badly the making of the potato scones went. Pity the poor wee kiddies having to eat them....

*UPDATE*
We were able to collect my mum's parcel from the Post Office today that was meant to save my bacon. Alas, it was too late for Orla, but at least I have a very happy boy!

Help ma boab, Hamish! Yer roots are showing!

Michty me! Some links:
DC Thompson shop (publisher of The Broons & Oor Wullie)
How to make a kilt
Scotland's other National Drink - Irn-Bru