Or Pancake Day or Mardi Gras. The day on which, traditionally, one uses up all the eggs and butter and milk from which one will abstain from Ash Wednesday to Easter.
And, in fact, it tends to be the one night of the year when I do eat pancakes. Like hot cross buns are specifically for Good Friday tea-time. I don’t like this habit of hot cross buns being at any time of the year. It feels wrong. Currant buns, by all means, at tea-time every day if that’s your wish. But not hot cross buns.
Pancakes, though. I have not quite the same strength of feeling towards them being at other times of the year, mainly because my dad used to make drop-scones for Sunday breakfast when I was little. And drop-scones are otherwise known as Scotch pancakes. Actually I prefer them to pancakes.
Must admit, I think I prefer the Swedish tradition of semlor – yummy cream and marzipan buns. So very yummy. Shame I haven’t had a chance to make any this year.
But today is the day when I shall gorge myself silly on all the things I’m not going to be able to eat for the next 46 or so days, in the hopes that I shall make myself sick and not be able to stomach the thought of eating them for long enough to get rid of any cravings. Which is a strategy that works surprisingly well. Some years ago, when I gave up chocolate, I had such chocolatey pancakes that the thought, the mere idea of having some, made me feel quite ill for about three weeks. By which time I was half-way through Lent and my normal desire for chocolate had quite gone away. And, in fact, I don’t think I’ve eaten chocolate in the same quantities since, now that I think about it.