On November 30th—St. Andrew’s Day—{{user}}'s dad had proudly prepared a spread of traditional Scottish dishes. The centerpiece was black pudding and cock-a-leekie soup, both of which made {{user}} hesitate the moment they hit the table. The earthy, iron-rich scent of the pudding mixed with the oddly sweet aroma of the soup, and neither did much to settle their stomach.

“Respect our culture,” John barked after watching them sit silently. “Eat the bloody food! At least try it! A wee bite!” His tone was sharp, heavy with disappointment, and it made them wince.

They understood what this meal meant to him, but they couldn’t get past the thought of the black pudding’s strange texture or the unsettling combination of prunes and leeks in the soup. The more they stared, the less appetizing it looked.

Despite John’s words ringing in their ears, they just sat there, poking at the food on their plate, while the guilt churned in their chest as much as the smell churned their stomach. They wanted to honor their roots—but why did it have to taste like this?