Happy Pancake Day

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Hard on the heels of Where The Fuck Do You Put The Apostrophe, Or Is It Optional? Day comes Mardi Gras, Shrove Tuesday, or Pancake Day, as it’s known in my neck of the woods.

We may be poor as churchmice, but we know how to live it up over here.

Olney prepares for ‘world’s oldest’ pancake race

A Buckinghamshire town is due to hold what is thought to be the world’s oldest pancake race later.

The race in Olney dates back to 1445 and is believed to have begun with a towns woman arriving late for the Shriving service at the parish church.

The 24 female competitors will run the race wearing aprons and headscarves and carrying a frying pan with a pancake.

The winner, on crossing the line, is greeted by the verger with the traditional kiss of peace.

“Ladies from the town race from the Market Square to the church in memory of a town cook,” race organiser Ian Ford said.

“The story goes that on hearing the shriving bell, calling everyone to the church service, she ran out of the house clutching her frying pan and still wearing her apron.”

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Pancakes. Domestic drudgery. Prescriptive gender roles. Cosiplay. Sexual subjugation by religious authority figures. Shriving. All human life is here.  You thought Monty Python’s Flying Circus was a comedy show? It was a documentary.

Open thread if you want. Hit it.

Posted by YAFB on 02/21/12 at 09:56 AM • Permalink

Categories: FoodMessylaneousPoliticsNuttersRelijunSports

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Does the pancake have to, you know, stay in the pan?  If so it looks like some form of superglue was required.

Any that fall on the pavement are left to form a series of mini-roundabouts.

Oh, and wheeee!

In more sensationalistic pancake news, 2/3rds of Brits can’t make a pancake!

Of course it’s the Daily Mail so I imagine that while the first graf is about pancakes they’ll spend the rest of the article talking about dancing with the stars.

Comment by MikeJ on 02/21/12 at 11:56 AM

My future SIL is in Alnwick Castle for the semester.

A member of the Percy family stands at the top of the Castle’s Barbican and throws the ball down into the crowd before the players and spectators set off down the hill to the pastures, accompanied by an official Northumbrian piper.

We have it on good authority that ‘there are no rules’, and the game culminates in the ball being thrown into the river and the first person to reach it gets to keep it!

I wonder if they have rules about pan composition, i.e., aluminum vs cast iron, etc. Obviously the former would be less of a burden to the racer than the latter. But since the only prize is a lousy “traditional kiss of peace,” maybe they don’t bother.

I’d carry a waffle iron just to trip folks up a bit.

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