pancake day!

Happy Fat Tuesday, everyone.

I was listening to the Mooney show on RTÉ Radio 1 this afternoon on which a woman was giving a recipe for pancakes and I wanted to call them and tell them they were making it all too damn complicated. As it was radio, I couldn't vouch for her end result but it sounded terrible. She was talking about adding salt and oil and stuff to make the pancakes fluffy. Salt doesn't make pancakes fluffy... nor does letting the batter stand for a half hour as she recommended. IRISH PEOPLE, READ THESE THREE WORDS AND LEARN:

Whipped.
Egg.
Whites.

Fold them into your batter. Don't let the batter stand for half an hour, the egg whites will congeal. And get some nice maple syrup from Vermont.

But let's face it. Here in Ireland people don't actually make pancakes. They're magically crafted by the baking fairies somewhere in Austria and shipped to our shops pre-made. That's right... shock, horror... pancakes come in nice cellophane packages ready to eat. And you ask me if Ireland is different.

I was bemused to find out back in the days when I was new here that there was such a day... a Pancake Day. In my world previous to now Pancake Day was usually every Saturday and they usually came with a generous portion of Car Talk and A Prairie Home Companion on the radio. At first I thought it was a joke. And when I started laughing I exposed myself for the unwashed heathen that I am. You see, only dim witted, totally unchurched me would not make a correlation between Mardi Gras, Carnival, Pancake Day and Lent. You don't want to be the only one laughing at the beginning of Lent in a room full of devout old-school Irish Catholics. The slagging will never cease.

I've since found out that the reason it's Pancake Day and not Go-Buy-Up-All-The-Shops-Of-All-Their-Chocolate-And-Binge-Till-You-Barf Day is that long ago when the Irish had no money (you know, the '80s) they had to do something with all the rich food in their kitchens, so that it would all be gone before Lent began. So they'd give it up for the lord. All the cream, the eggs, flour, the salt, all the oil, and all of... good lord, I don't know what would be left... it would all go into the bowl and into the pan. Everyone would eat it and then they would eat dirt until Easter so they could go to Heaven which they are convinced exists and which I'm not so sure of so I don't give up anything for Lent, just in case I don't get another go-round. Oh, sorry... that would be reincarnation and Catholics don't believe in that.

I kind of feel like if there is a heaven and there is a gate at which we all have to queue to get in (holy crap, we're dead... like why do we have to queue?), I would feel certain there would be stuff inside those gates of which I could never conceive here on Earth, and which would make me look back on all the things I ate here and scoff at the mere humbleness of it. "I gave up chocolate for Lent and I thought I was missing something? Little did I know? I'll have more of that spun cloud candy, please. Thanks, Pete."

Alright. I'm a blasphemer... but can it be blasphemy when you don't subscribe to the religion? But in deference to my Catholic pals, I'm sorry.

And anyway, I've had my Lent. I've reached a 4 week mark in my little "hey, let's give up spud, pasta, rice, sugar, drink and bread, and drink lots of water" experiment and I can say I can't believe the difference. For the few years that I've been bemoaning my increasing roundiness, which wasn't extreme or bad in any way... other than the fact that my clothes were just a biiiiiit too tight, if I had copped on that a few weeks would make such a difference just because I changed my eating habits, I would have done it years ago.

I'm just back from my house where I had the most fun! I propped Lola up on my bed and tried on everything in my wardrobe with the intention of taking most of it to the charity shop. As I've been staying at my man's house mostly out of a suitcase, I had forgotten about the contents of my wardrobe and had written a lot of it off because the last time I wore any of it, it was just too uncomfortably tight. But not as much made it into the charity bag as I intended. I tried on garment after garment and oggled at myself in the mirror. I can't believe the difference. I'm no rail and I never will be, but I feel as though I'm right back to where I should be and in hindsight it took nothing at all. I'm just sorry I didn't take measurements before I started. (I don't do weighing scales, they skew the statisics all wrong.) So today, after having forgotten about most of the stuff in my wardrobe and having lost a few inches, it's like I went shopping and came away with the most fun stuff. Look at all the money I saved!

I had a piece of toast this morning for the first time in over a month and you know what? Me, me the Queen of Toast, me the girl who chose buttered toast as her desert island food when her friend Shannon asked her because she said she never tired of it, this woman right here who thought she'd never be able to give up bread, I ate it and it was ok. Just ok. I couldn't care less if I had another piece. I'm sure I will have another piece, might even develop a taste for the stuff again, but for now I'm addicted to a diet without it, I crave leafy salads with avocado and feta and balsamic dressing, and I like fitting into my clothing too much. My Lent has made me feel sexy. I wonder what the church would think about that?