A Traitor to My Roots

Hey, it's Fat Tuesday! Did you have a gluttonous extravaganza of fat, alcohol, and sugar? Maybe some shiny beads thrown in there just for kicks?

Or did you, like me, surrender to your northeastern, Protestant surroundings and go to a Shrove Tuesday pancake supper?

Yeah. It wasn't exactly Bourbon Street up there at the MiL's church, which hosts this all-you-can-eat pancake supper with like ten different kinds of pancakes every Shrove Tuesday. But Cubby and Charlie really enjoyed the children's playroom (other people's toys are always the best, of course). And several of the MiL's fellow churchgoers enjoyed seeing Cubby and Charlie, because you know how it is when you don't see a little kid for a few months (or, ahem, a year . . .) and then you do. Gasps of amazement at their stunning growth all around.

Still. Next year I should at least wear some beads to eat my pancakes. Wouldn't want to forget where I came from.*

* Okay, so it's really my mother who is from New Orleans. My connection to that city and its Mardi Gras traditions is only that of a second-generation immigrant, you might say. But trust me, Fat Tuesday is way more fun to celebrate than Shrove Tuesday. Same day, not even close to the same kind of celebration.