The Original Great British Bake Off
C. A. Asbrey
Shrove Tuesday is the day before Ash Wednesday, and is observed in various ways in Christian countries throughout the world, but most reflect the fact that it's the last day to feast on forbidden goodies before the lenten fast begins. The most famous are probably the carnival in Rio De Janeiro and the Mardis Gras in New Orleans, which translates directly from French as Fat Tuesday. The word carnival comes from from medieval Latin carnelevamen, carnelevarium ‘Shrovetide’, from Latin caro, carn- ‘flesh’ + levare ‘put away’. In Denmark, buns stuffed with whipped cream, chocolate, jam, accompany fastenlavn; a game involving hitting toy barrels full of sweets shaped like cats in a game similar to a piñata. Lithuanians are encouraged to eat twelve meals to prepare for the fast, and hold festivals where people sing, dance, and play tricks in a way Halloween is celebrated elsewhere. The Polish have Fat Thursday instead, with bakeries opening early to sell of the cakes that will be consumed that day,and Spain also starts on the last Thursday before Lent when they throw Dia de la Tortilla, literally Day of the Omelette. This carnival varies by region, but rest assured it will involve feasting on all things tasty and fattening.
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| Olney Pancake Race |
In the UK it's all about the pancakes. They cook them, eat them, race with them, flip them, and ritually beg for them. In older times a version a wassailing accompanied Shrove Tuesday. Known as Lent Crocking, Nicky-Nan Night, the Drawing of Cloam, Dappy-Door Night, or Pan Sharding. This entailed people going from door to door begging for pancakes, ingredients, or fillings. A failure to provide them could result in pranks. The origins of the pancake race come from an old story about a woman in 1445 who was so busy making pancakes that she didn't realise she was late for church until the bells rung. She raced to the church, still clutching her hot pan, tossing the pancake all the way to prevent it from burning.
This tradition takes place all over the UK, and even at the Houses of Parliament, but the event at the Village of Olney is the most famous. Contestants run a 415 yard course, and they must wear a headscarf and an apron, tossing the pancake as they go. Other events celebrate the tossing of the pancakes, trying to toss it the highest, the most times, or set records for the largest number of people tossing pancakes (Sheffield 2012, where 890 people tossed pancakes for thirty seconds). The largest pancake was also tossed in England, in Rochdale, in 1994 using a crane.
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| The Largest Pancake Ever Tossed |
Ingredients
2 oz plain flour
1 egg
1 gill of milk (a historical measurement, translating to 142ml)
A pinch of salt 2 oz clarified fat for frying
2 oz caster sugar
Lemon juice
Method
Mix the flour and salt together, and make into a batter with the egg and milk. Heat the frying-pan, add a little fat. Make it quite hot, and pour in enough batter to cover the pan thinly. When golden brown on one side, toss or turn and fry the other.
Squeeze a little lemon juice over it, dust with caster sugar, roll up and serve dusted with caster sugar.
Excerpt
“That’s my drink,” said Tibby.
The stranger turned a smug sneer on Tibby. “It can’t be. It’s in my hand.” “It’s mine.”
Tibby appealed to the barman for help. “He’s got my drink.”
The server rolled his eyes. “Have you seen how busy it is in here? I ain’t got time to watch everyone’s stuff. Look after your own drink.”
“I’m trying to. Give me that.” Tibby reached up but the taller man held the glass up high, way out of the reach of the tiny man. “You know that’s mine.”
Tibby jumped and stretched, huffing in his exertion in a game of alcoholic-keep-away much to the amusement of the ring of bullies who sniggered and jeered. “Look at the size of him. He’s a midget.”
“I am not.” Tibby jumped once more. “Midgets are medically four-foot-ten. I’m five-foot-one.”
“Five-one,” guffawed a vacant-looking goon. “You is a giant midget.”
“Please, I’ve had a terrible day. Just let me have a drink in peace. Give me my glass.”
“Yeah, give ’im his glass, Fred,” scoffed the large one with greasy hair sticking out from under a tatty cap.
“Sure.” The stranger swilled back the contents before he held out the empty glass. “Here.”
Tibby pulled back his reaching hand, his bottom lip growing and trembling beneath great blue globes which glistened with tears. “You drank it?”
The men threw back their heads and guffawed, slapping one another on the backs and seeking support for their helpless mirth at this unexpected reaction. It was beyond anything they’d hoped for.
“Yeah, get yourself another.” The bully snickered.
Tears streamed down Tibby’s face. “I don’t want another drink. I wanted that one. It was special.”
Fred leaned forward, leering into Tibby’s face.
“Well, you can’t have that one. I drank it.”
“He’s cryin’. Can you believe this?” asked the smallest bully. “A grown man sobbin’ like a baby.”
“I don’t believe this.” Tibby leaned over the bar, his shoulders heaving with deep sobs. “First of all, I get taken to jail for a crime I didn’t commit. Then I get fired, and to top it off, my wife told me she’s leaving me.” He backhanded away glistening tears as the band of bullies fell quiet. “This has been the worst day of my entire life. I come in here for a quiet drink and now, I meet you. Why do you want to stop me from committing suicide? It’s too cruel.”
“Suicide?” a small voice murmured from the gaggle of miscreants. “
Yeah.” Tibby turned on the bully, pointing an accusing finger. “He drank my poison. A man can’t even kill himself in peace anymore.”
Tibby kept right in character and watched Fred grasp his throat. “Poison?”
“I tried to tell you, but you kept pulling it away from me. I came in here to kill myself, but now you even took that from me.”
“He’s bluffin’,” cried one of the crowd.
“Ya think?” demanded another. “How often d’ya see a grown man cry in public?”
“He ain’t exactly a grown man,” answered his friend. It wasn’t helping though, Fred’s eyes bulged and he doubled over thrusting his fingers down his gullet.
Fred’s friend grabbed Tibby by the lapels and shook him violently. “What kinda poison was it?” The journalist wailed and whimpered as Fred buckled at the knees. “What kind?”
“Strychnine,” Tibby sniveled. “What have I got left to live for?”
“Strychnine?” “Yeah, that’s why I had with whiskey. It kills the taste.” Tibby paused. “Along with the crushing pain of my pointless existence. I guess your existence has been rendered meaningless, now.”
“I need a doc,” Fred bellowed, running for the door.
“A doctor won’t be able to help,” Tibby called after the departing crowd. His tears had dried up and his smile returned with suspicious alacrity. “But get your stomach pumped, just in case.”
The barman wiped the bar with a grubby cloth and eyed Tibby with caution. “I ain’t gonna have no trouble in here.”
“Hey, if you’d adopted that stance a minute ago, I wouldn’t have been driven to subterfuge.”
The barman frowned. “There ain’t nowhere around here called Subterfuge. This is the Flying Horse.”
Tibby sighed. “Two more whiskeys, please.” His face lit up at the sight of Jake returning from the latrines. “Ah, you’re back. I just ordered some more drinks.”
Jake’s brow met, picking up on the undercurrents and sideways glances going on around them. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Nothing.” Tibby smiled his most innocent smile. “Some bullies took my whiskey but I told them how tough my day had been and they left.” He lifted the shot glass replete with amber liquid. “I ordered us some more. Now, about Callie. I’ve had a few thoughts.”
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