Today, in England, is Pancake Day, known to those more pious than myself as Shrove Tuesday. It is a day that all British people look forward to, on the basis that, thanks to tradition – in which they were originally cooked to clear out the pantry, to make way for Lent – it is now required by law to stuff one’s face with pancakes, topped with lemon and sugar, until they come out of your nose.
I have continued said tradition, despite my lack of proximity, by attempting to kill my husband with liberal pancake application. I was kinder to Mum-in-law, but still made her join in. These are not American-style pancakes, incidentally: an English pancake is what is generally known over here as a crêpe. (Even though it is not a crêpe, which is French, bigger and even thinner.)
It wasn’t my best batch of pancakes, largely because the hob I use won’t get hot enough for the necessary quick cook. However, I am proud to report that I have not lost my touch and can still flip them like a pro. Several times a pancake, when I’m feeling feisty. I’ve come a long way from my days in the Brownie Guides, at the age of eight, trying to cook them over a camping stove in the car park and wondering why we kept ending up with balls of goo.
The best pancake I ever made, incidentally, was the one that I flipped straight onto Willis’s cleavage. But that’s another story.