There is probably some ancient reason, and doubtless a good one, for Carnaval's being the season in France for eating crêpes and beignets, or as they are called in America, pancakes and fritters. Carnaval is that period from l'Epiphanie jusqu'au mercredi des Cendres—that is, January sixth to Ash Wednesday. I can't tell you the reason. But I suspect that long, long ago fresh foods were so scarce in winter as to be almost nonexistent, and people had to serve at Carnaval parties something made of foodstuffs everyone could get, like flour, milk, and eggs.
What I do know is that by the time February comes to country towns in France, the drifting smell of the friture—the oil for frying fritters—fills the air, and every Frenchman's nose warns him that Lent is not far away. Les veillées, as the evening hours between supper and bedtime are called, are when most of the country folks have their gay parties, and in February there are nice long evenings because the days are still short. Also, these weeks before the forty days and forty nights of fasting begin are favored by the church for fun and feast. Fortunately, the farm work isn't so tiring then, either, as it will be after Easter, when the lighter side of living must be slighted for it. So the time before Lent is right for festivities, and for some reason or other, crêpes and beignets have become the traditional foods.
Eating habits have become as seasonal in France as the religious rites, so that nowadays the season, the food, and the feast—or fast—of the church are bound together in a sort of triple pact. You wouldn't, for example, eat strawberries in February, except perhaps at expensive Parisian restaurants run à grands frais, any more than you would celebrate Easter in October. And the French, on the whole, like it that way. A food isn't more desirable to them just because it is out of season and difficult to obtain.
Au contraire, your realistic and thrifty Frenchman reasons that its being out of season may well mean that he is buying something not quite so good, or at least, not at its best. “Trop cher, mon ami. Alors, nous pouvons attendre.” “Very expensive, my friend. We can wait.” he waiting, meanwhile, serves to whet his appetite. He eats, then, in January and February, most of his year's supply of pancakes, even serving them at the season's parties. And when the berries are ripe in the spring, they taste just that much sweeter to him.
My memories of Carnaval take me back to the small town in the central part of France where I was raised and particularly to my grandparents' farm in the countryside a few miles distant from my own home. Living there were the unmarried sons and daughters, aunts and uncles younger than my parents. Grand' mère celebrated all the feast days, many of which my mother, so busy with her young children, might have to overlook. The whole family was always welcome, and the special foods were on hand for every occasion.
The kitchen of the farmhouse, the biggest room and by far the coziest, was the gathering place. Here was the great long table where at least a dozen of us usually sat down to meals and where Grand'mère so often served eighteen or more. There was no telephone to tell her whom to expect, and she never did know how many cousins might turn up. But on their farm there was always an extra chicken ready to go in the pot; always eggs, it seemed, for omelettes without end. And it was a simple matter to bring a table from another room and seat the children at it.
As I helped her place the chairs around the table, she would say, “Un de plus ou moins, cela n'a pas d'importance, mon petit.” And one more or less didn't make any difference to her.
I can see it all so clearly, the sturdy chairs with their rush seats and the two wooden benches that were drawn up to the table when needed and several of us youngsters crowded onto them. Near the doorway was the old-fashioned horloge, a big clock with heavy tick and swinging pendulum that so fascinate a child. But as soon as supper was over, it seemed to me like a sentinel with a tic-tac tread pacing he minutes that brought bedtime nearer and nearer for a certain small boy called Louis.
As the other end of the room, where the cooking went on, were the fireplace, the stove, the big kitchen cupboard, and, over near the window, Grand'mère's work table Kitchen stoves in those big country kitchens were seldom set against the wall, but instead quite a distance away and in front of the fireplace with plenty of room between the two. The long black stovepipe was stretched overhead against the ceiling, venting the fumes into the fireplace chimney. a great deal of the cooking, however, was done in the fireplace, especially anything cooked in a frying pan. they had big black skillets with those very long handles, necessary when cooking over the open fire, that rested on a metal stand set over the fire itself. Grand'mère could roll an omelette in one of the pans with a skill that any chef would envy. After a well-spaced succession of gentle jerks, you'd see the light, delicately cooked mixture roll over on itself, golden-brown and a perfect shape for the waiting platter.
During the weeks preceding Ash Wednesday in mon pays, there were always four parties, each one honoring a different group. The first party, for the men, came two Sundays before Lent. On the Sunday immediately before, the women were honored. Two Thursdays preceding Ash Wednesday was the day for the unmarried girls and the last Thursday of the Carnaval season for the unmarried young men. The older people talked, played card games, drank the native wine—le bon vin du pays— and ate scores of beignets and crêpes. The young folk always invited someone who played an accordion or other instrument for dancing, and all ate the same refreshments, the beignets and the crêpes.
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