Published: February 26, 2012
February in France has been exceptionally cold, from the shores of the North Sea to the pebble beaches of the Mediterranean, dusted with snow. Despite the cold, or perhaps because of it, the French have continued their winter celebrations, each one an occasion to crowd several people into the same room, warming hearts and raising temperatures a few degrees.
It all started on Feb. 2 - Groundhog Day in the United States, Chandeleur, Candlemas, in France. For this "festival of lights," candles are lit at midnight to commemorate the end of the Christmas season, 40 days after the birth of Christ. Traditionally, this is also the day when Nativity scenes are put away until the next holiday season.
However, ask the average Frenchman why he celebrates Chandeleur, nine times out of 10, he'll answer, "to eat crepes," and on Feb. 2, that's just what the French do.
They get out a well-seasoned frying pan made specially for the thin pancakes the French prefer to the fluffier American kind. Then they mix up some batter with buckwheat or white flour, depending on whether the crepe is to be salty or sweet. Buckwheat crepes are served with ham, cheese, eggs or andouille, a sausage made from pork belly, an acquired taste that's not one of mine. As for the sweet variety, the only limit is the cook's creativity. Some of the basics are sugar and lemon juice, melted chocolate, sweetened chestnut cream or a favorite jam, but, just like with a sundae, you can pile on pretty much anything you'd like, including a dollop of your favorite ice cream.
As to why the French eat crepes on that day, there are many legends, most concerning popes from long ago who distributed crepes to pilgrims visiting Rome. The most convincing explanation I've found is that a perfect, golden crepe, light as air, looks a lot like the sun shining in the sky. It's the perfect reminder that at the end of a long dark winter, sun and spring will return.
In fact, just like Groundhog Day, Chandeleur marks a significant turning point in the winter season. We all know that if a groundhog sees his shadow and returns to his burrow, winter will hang on for six more weeks. In much the same way, "if Candlemas be fair and bright, winter has another flight. If Candlemas brings clouds and rain, winter will not come again," claims an old English poem.
On Feb. 2 of this year, in Paris and much of France, winds swept down from Siberia and kept blowing for much of the month, turning this year's carnival season, leading up to Mardi Gras, into a pretty chilly affair. In Nice, where one of France's oldest and most famous carnivals takes place, temperatures have been hovering around zero for weeks, which does not bode well for the traditional "battle of flowers," perhaps the most peaceable battle on earth. In a parade of 20 magnificent floats, all composed of fresh flowers, scantily dressed men and women shower spectators with volleys of mimosa, lilies and daisies, grown on the hillsides around Nice. Fewer flowers and cold temperatures mean fewer tourists for what is the city's biggest money-making event of the year.
Further north, in the seaport of Dunkerque, where a cold wind almost always blows off the North Sea, everybody gets into the act at carnival time. Neighborhood associations, much like the "New Year's Associations" of Philadelphia mummers, dress in bright hats and carry parasols with their local colors as they march through the streets. There is no organized parade, no bleachers, no paying spectators, as is the case in Nice. There are simply the people of Dunkerque, organized in neighborhood "gangs," and anyone else who wants to participate, as long as they wear a disguise. From January through to Mardi Gras and beyond, each association organizes a dance, where entrance fees are donated to good cause.
For those who really want to celebrate, with a guarantee of escaping winter's cold, there is France's most famous carnival, which takes place more than 4,000 miles from Paris in equatorial Guyana, France's largest state, on the northeast coast of South America, bordered by Brazil and Suriname.
In what's known as France's "Far West," festivities begin in January, three days after Epiphany, with the arrival of the carnival king, the diabolical Vaval, and continue through to Ash Wednesday, when Vaval is publicly put to death. In between, most of the 114,678 inhabitants of Guyana, along with thousands of tourists, live to the beat of the carnival, which includes weekly Saturday night dances followed by Sunday afternoon parades. In the days leading up to Ash Wednesday, the festivities continue nonstop.
During carnival time, at the dances, in the parades, you'll always find le touloulou, a word you won't find in a French dictionary. Le touloulou is a woman who, at the weekly dances, gets to act like a man. In other words, the men line the walls of the dance hall, like so many wallflowers, while le touloulou, disguised from head to toe, wearing a mask, a wig and a veil, a long gown, long gloves and opaque stockings, even using cushions and stuffing to hide her physique, struts around the room, eyeing the men before selecting her partner for the night, who does not have the right to say no. Balls go from dusk to dawn and the dancing can get hot and heavy, to the point that nine months later, there is a sharp rise in the birth-rate in Guyana, where "Sadie Hawkins' Day" goes on for weeks.
As for me, I'm not sure I'm ready to dance the night away. I'd rather sit back and reminisce about a childhood memory of Fastnacht Day, back when, in Pottsville, you could find just about the best glazed doughnuts in the world.
I'm sure I'm not the only one whose mouth waters when remembering The Danish Bakery, once located at 20th and Market streets. There, Mr. and Mrs. Frederickson spoiled us, not only with their glazed doughnuts, which made Fastnacht Day one of my favorite holidays, but also with fresh Vienna bread and their unforgettable almond ring. Ah! Those were the days when, upon opening the bakery door, which made a little bell ring, we'd be greeted by billows of warm, moist air smelling of fresh-baked bread.
But Lent has begun and the cupboards are bare of fat. Time to elevate our thoughts to higher things - although it would be hard to find better than the bread and doughnuts once sold at the Danish Bakery.
(Honicker can be reached at honicker.republicanherald@gmail.com)
