Yes, I’ve had my fill of pancakes this evening, far too many to mention. It’s a proud tradition in my family, the one time each year that we have them – we spend the other 364 days positively allergic to the blighters, wanting to throw up if we so much as casually glance at a Jif lemon in the supermarket. It takes that long to recover.
It’s not just Shrove Tuesday either, in terms of extreme gorge-fests. Christmas Day is characterised by having so much turkey and so many roast potatoes that it’s nigh-on impossible to waddle to the sofa afterwards. A fork-lift truck is usually on standby.
Thank heaven that these and other food-tastic celebrations are rare events, otherwise I’d be the size of a house. As it is, a bit of gleeful cross-trainer action tomorrow should just about sort me out. In the meantime, I feel sick and wish I hadn’t eaten so much.
But it was worth it. Fluffy pancakes with white chocolate sauce. Lovely. It is only once a year, after all.