Pancakes and ashes

Man, how time flies, eh? Last year on Shrove Tuesday, I was sat in a meeting with representatives of an organization that gives out awards that are nearly ten times the monetary value of Nobel Prizes ($3MM, as opposed to approximately $350,000) in physics, life sciences and mathematics; wearing business clothes and trying not to crunch my potato chips too loudly. (Where were you in my time of need, Pepsico?)

It was an odd get-together, but the part that’s stuck with me was when our colleague in Switzerland, who was calling into the meeting starting at 1800 CET mentioned that he was missing Pancake Day with his little boy for it. And my manager did not know what Pancake Day is.

I didn’t want to wax theological for someone who doesn’t care about it, but I’ve been thinking about it over the past week—the last hurrah before Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent. Pancake Day is when you use up the last of the fats (including eggs; ergo the perfection of pancakes) in your kitchen, preparing for the lean days of Lent. Mardi Gras (literally, “Fat Tuesday”) and Carnival are different—some might say excessive—expressions of this idea; drink yourself stupid and go crazy so you hit Ash Wednesday with a monumental hangover and a properly penitential demeanor.

At the moment, I’m less interested in Shrove Tuesday/Mardi Gras/Pancake Day than I am with what I view as the opportunity that Lent presents to cleanse my spirit, reflect, discern and distil my current place in life, what I have to contribute, and how I might pull it all together. I feel like I’ve got myself into a muddle, so it’s going to take an effort to find my way out of it.

I’m hoping 40 days and 40 nights will be enough.