Peter leapt out of bed. Well, I say bed. It was more of a straw-filled cot, an outsized manger if you will, in the corner of his spartan shepherd’s hut.
Anyway, he was even more excited than usual because today was Shrove Tuesday…
PAN
CAKE
DAY
In fact he was so excited that he totally ignored his raging morning glory, letting it, in its own time, subside naturally, unrequited; not beaten into sticky submission as per his usual routine on waking.
Quite why an entirely arbitrary Tuesday, held in such importance by those on high intent upon suppressing the masses, their flock, that it wasn’t assigned a fixed date in the Calendar, oh no. For some entirely fatuous doctrinal reason lost to the mists of time, it was deemed to fall on the Tuesday that happened to fall 40 days before the first Sunday, on or after, wait for it… the first Full Moon, on or after, wait for it… the Vernal Equinox. God knows how producers of syrup, squeezy lemon and bottled batter mixes (just add milk, egg and some serious wrist action) plan their production schedules, but then they do say he moves in mysterious ways.
Anyhoo, back to the matter in hand, and for once it isn’t that. Peter, as he had every year since being sent to work with his goats, had planned a day replete with pancake themed menus. Breakfast, Brunch, lunch, tea, dinner and supper, you name it, he had a pancake planned for it. He’d even tracked down some buckwheat flour for savoury galettes, that traditional Normandy delicacy that’d somehow found its way into his consciousness. How the hell he was going to source fresh wild mushrooms in March was anyone’s guess.
First came the milk. That was easily sorted. As ever he turned to his most reliable nanny, Heidi; so called because her teats vaguely resembled the pert paps of his all growed up childhood sweetheart, in that there were two of them and they projected from her full udder like chapel hatpegs. Swiftly and skilfully, much to Heidi’s appreciation (I’ll leave that up to you, reader; let’s just say she was bleating enthusiastically, much like her namesake that time when Peter caught her ‘trying out’ Klara’s wind-up muscle massager), he tugged and squeezed until he soon had a bucketful of warm frothy creamy goodness, perfect for batter.
Flour was courtesy of the baker’s boy, who’d sometimes come by when Peter was bored, keeping him company in a way that Heidi was unable to.
Eggs were freshly laid by the hens in the farmyard below; still warm and covered in shit and feathers.
Hard mountain cheese, local air-dried ham, syrup - both Tate & Lyle and maple, chopped hazelnuts, and locally grown bananas and Amalfi lemons completed the ingredients list.
Now came the best part of the preparations. The batter. He whipped up several batches to use throughout the day, whisking each frantically until his wrist ached, like it had when he’d discovered that dog-eared magazine with the stuck together pages on top of Heidi’s grandfather’s wardrobe. Setting all but one them aside to rest and develop their characteristic jism-like odour, he set to work making his first pancakes of the day. Just for him. It’s anyone’s guess how the tub of vanilla ice cream he produced didn’t melt, but this is a work of speculative fiction.
Replete, for now, Peter gathered together his things and headed out to take those bloody goats up the sodding mountain again. He’d be back down for brunch.
The only downside of Pancake Day in this idyllic mountain paradise was the annual prospect of the night being rounded off by the toothless Grandmother regaling anyone who’d listen with tales of her gap year (really?) in Rio, a lifetime ago. Unfortunately she still had her costume, all feathers, sequined harness and ornate headpiece, and insisted on ‘rewarding’ unfortunate onlookers with the unforgettable sight of her parading around, as best she could, ably assisted of course by Peter & Heidi, in her outfit, which disturbingly still fitted, in a fashion at least, and which regrettably left little to the imagination. Still, at least they’ll all have a year or so to recover! (Give or take whatever leeway is required to embrace the historic foibles of the RC Church, of course!)