APH: Today we feast
Title: Today we feast
Author: grosse_averse
Characters: Poland, Lithuania; Russia, Belarus, Ukraine; Germany, Prussia, Austria, Switzerland; Spain, South Italy; Sweden, Finland, Sealand; England, Ireland (OC), Scotland (OC), Denmark, Norway, Iceland; America, France
Rating: PG I guess?
Warnings: None...except for this deals with a religious feast day some do not celebrate?
Summary: Eight ways to celebrate the beginning of Lent, from around the world.
Notes: I got the idea for this story while I was doing some random research. My father is a Roman Catholic and I was baptized as such. My mother, from a family of Ukrainians, is Greek Orthodox. I have never identified myself as Christian, but recently took an interest in religion and decided to try observing Lent this year.
The idea of “Shrove Tuesday” or “Fat Tuesday” - finding out all the different ways different cultures celebrate it, and the extreme love or hate for the “commercialism” the New Orleans Mardi Gras festival exploits - was too appealing to pass up. I’ve decided only to focus on a few select countries, and about funny/interesting things I found out that I wanted to write about. My knowledge only extends so far as my rudimentary Internet researching skills, so if I’ve got something wrong please feel free to correct me!
Warsaw, Poland
Poland’s house smells like plums when Lithuania enters, using the key he was given years ago. Trust Poland not to have changed the locks on his doors since...
Well, since forever. Lithuania slips off his shoes and calls out, “Poland?”
Oil sizzles from the kitchen. Poland exclaims in delight, and there is a shuffling of feet. The blond nation comes tearing out into the entrance hallway, pink apron fluttering as he flings himself at Lithuania. Lithuania buckles, catches him round the waist and simply holds him, holds Poland as the blond chatters in his ear about work and home and how the jam is just cooling and “like, have you grown? I haven’t seen you in absolute forever!”
There’s that forever again. “I think you shrunk.” he teases gently, and laughs at the soft open-palmed slap Poland delivers to his shoulder.
“I’m not going to let you taste the jam if you’re going to be like that.” Poland sniffs, a smile twitching at his lips, and spins on his heel, grabbing Lithuania’s hand. “Help me.”
Lithuania remembers Poland’s pączki - how could he not? Poland has everything ready, the dough and the jam and the little puncture holes in the sides of the soft round dough. Lithuania rolls up his sleeves. Poland throws a powder blue apron at him.
“C’mon!” he picks up the bowl of stewed plum jam. Lithaunia smiles.
“Didn’t you used to put rose jam in here?” he asks, remembering the taste. Poland shrugs with an open mouthed smile.
“I thought I would try something else.” he says. “Here, hold this.”
Lithuania examines his friend as Poland fills the pączki, painstakingly, until they bulge and puff. The dough smells faintly of alcohol, fizzles when Poland drops it from a pair of tongs into the hot oil. Poland is still talking and Lithuania can only watch his lips move, the way he flips his hand back and forth for effect, the way he stands against the counter with his hip cocked.
“I missed you.” Lithuania says, quickly, as Poland takes a breath in between topics. Poland glances at him with an expression that is half-surprised and half-saddened.
Lithuania thinks it is because he hasn’t said that in forever.
But then Poland smiles, as brightly as the rye fields, and says, “I missed you too, Liet! Aw, you’re so cute - you get two pączki for that!”
And Lithuania smiles and laughs and reaches out to hug Poland with one arm, ignoring his cries of, “Wa~it, Liet, the pączki!”, and drowns himself in the sunshine of that smile.
--
Notes:
-Fat Thursday is celebrated in Poland (and Germany), similar to Fat Tuesday in the regard that it marks the last Thursday before Lent and is pretty much a day dedicated to eating.
-Pączki are traditional Polish doughnuts served on Fat Thursday - fried dough with a filling (usually with powidl, a plum jam, or with rose-hip jam). They usually have a bit of alcohol added to them so that when they are fried the hot oil does not reach too deep into the dough and ruin the filling.
Moscow, Russia
The girl in the center of the crowd has been lit on fire, Ukraine notes idly, fingering the edge of her shawl. They have started without Brother- he will be so disappointed if he misses it. The crowd is joyful on this Sunday evening, and a rich smell fills the air, from the vendors at the edges of the square. The girl’s skirt is a rustic orange, with embroidered yellow roses, and Ukraine sighs as it is licked up by flames. What a pretty skirt. Such a waste.
Someone presses something into her hands, a paper napkin weighed down by something that warms her palm. Belarus has returned from the vendor with bliny, steaming and golden. Wordlessly her younger sister hands her a plastic fork - Ukraine thanks her for it, warmly.
“Where is Vanya?” she asks. “This is his favourite part!”
Belarus points off, back towards the stall. “Napkins.” she says.
Ukraine looks down at her blin with fondness. After so many years of distant relations, she is touched to see that her baby sister still remembers her favourite pancake topping - dark berry jam has been hastily spread across the top of her pancakes. Belarus, for her part, favors a dollop of sour cream with her treat, and she dips her pieces of blin sparingly into it as she eats. Ukraine likes to watch her sister when she eats blin - so serious, so prudent! Even back when she was a child and could have as much sour cream as she liked, Belarus only took what she needed and still had something to spare.
Russia lumbers up to them with his blin cupped in one large palm. He is still wearing his scarf but he has shed his coat in favor of brown corduroy pants and a thick gray shirt.
“Ah, they have started!” he exclaims, eyes lighting up as he takes in the girl and her flaming skirt. Ukraine heaves another sigh at the loss of such a lovely article of clothing and Russia throws her a worried glance.
“Sister?” he asks, and she shakes herself out of her thoughts. Today is not a day to be selfishly thinking of skirts. Today she spends time with her family and celebrates.
“Sorry.” she apologizes, holds out her fork. “Would you like to try some of mine, Vanya?”
Russia nods and lets her push her plastic fork past his lips. He makes a noise of agreement and pleasure, and Ukraine smiles. Then her brother cuts a piece of his own thin pancake and holds it up for her to eat.
Ukraine likes the tartness of the jam; Belarus prefers the rich tang of sour cream; as for Russia, he adores honey with his bliny, loves when it seeps into the cake and stains it sickly sweet. Russia wants everything to be sweet, to be good, to be perfect - so much so that sometimes he can’t tell when it is too much. Ukraine cannot count the number of times she has seen Russia drown his bliny or his tea with honey and sit there, still smiling.
Belarus pushes at their sides, suddenly jealous that Brother’s attention is so focused on Ukraine. Ukraine smiles at her, reaches out to tuck a wayward strand of silk-pale hair behind her sister’s ear as Russia obligingly cuts a piece for Belarus. In return, Belarus offers up her sour cream to both her siblings, who sigh and agree that yes, the sour cream goes well with the dough. Russia is relaxed, his face clear and free of worries - Belarus does not stand too close to her brother today, makes a point of smoothing away her often menacing expression, free hand tucked in her coat pocket. Ukraine’s heart swells with love and contentment. She gives Belarus some jam coated bliny to complete the cycle, and the siblings stand there for a minute to savor the mix of flavors, sweet-tart-tang in their mouths.
Children are shouting. To their left, women dance in their traditional Russian outfits. As the three of them watch the straw effigy of Kostroma go up in flames, Ukraine feels at peace. Goodbye winter, she thinks, watching her sister’s face glow in the firelight, her brother’s grin gleaming, hello spring. With this, we are reborn.
--
Notes:
In the Orthodox religion, Lent starts on a Monday instead of the Western Christian “Ash Wednesday”. The week before Lent, there is a Russian festival called Maslenitsa - which was originally a pagan festival to celebrate the ending of winter (hence eating pancakes that look like the sun). I’m not quite sure if this is exclusively a “Russian festival” (many of the sites I visited on this festival boasted it as a “Russian cultural festival” or a “Russian folk festival”), or if Ukrainians and Belorussians also partake in it as well - I am assuming so since it is an Orthodox religious event! But I like the idea of the three siblings going to this festival together, year after year. (plus there is fist fighting and fireworks and maybe even some bears, which Ivan would very much enjoy!!)
bliny (the Russian word for them) are thin pancakes commonly eaten before Lent - since butter, milk and eggs are forbidden during Lent, and those are perishable items, it was common practice on Fat Tuesday to get rid of your butter and eggs by making AN EXTRAORDINARY AMOUNT OF PANCAKES.
Kostroma is a straw scarecrow of a girl that is burned at the end of the Maslenitsa, on Sunday evening of the festival week. I’m not quite sure why, exactly, people burn her during Maslenitsa, though some people think she represents an ancient Slavic goddess, left over from when this was a pagan festival.
Rottweil, Germany
Roderich does not look particularly happy - then again, Roderich never really looks happy when Gilbert was around. Though, Ludwig reasons, this could be because Gilbert is currently wearing a Hopfennarr mask and trying to get Roderich to wear one too.
Roderich maintains every year that it is tradition that forces him to come out with Ludwig and Gilbert. Gilbert thinks it is because Roderich is actually too much of a pansy to be alone on Fat Tuesday, and since Elizabeta is probably out “stomping on heads or whatever Hungarians do to celebrate this shit” he is left to rely on their “awesomeness”.
When Roderich shows up with Vash, however, even Gilbert looks a little taken aback - although it is hard to tell, since he is wearing a mask. Vash glowers sourly at him from underneath his white hat.
“What the fuck are you wearing?” he spits. Gilbert flips him the bird.
Vash might be the reason Roderich looks so unhappy, Ludwig thinks.
They are meeting in the town of Rottweil for the Fasnacht celebrations. Ludwig knows some of Vash’s people have a big celebration for Lent next week, so he is a bit puzzled as to why the blond nation would be tagging along with them. Gilbert doesn’t care as long as he gets to be in the parade.
“Liechtenstein said I should go.” Vash admits with a scowl. “She thinks it would be good for me.”
“What, are you married to your sister now?” Gilbert crows - a second later he hits the ground when the neutral country kicks him viciously in the shins.
Ludwig is already getting a headache and it is still early.
Then Gilbert is pulling off his mask and shouting something at them from afar, and Vash is heading towards an outdoor stall and Roderich is sniffing and sighing and rolling up his sleeves and saying, “Well, we had better get it over with.” Ludwig is confused until he smells frying doughnuts.
This must be the only time Vash permits Gilbert to stand so close to him, as they line up along the front of the stall and Gilbert crows, “Hallo, can we get fifty Fasnachts?”
“Fifty?” Vash repeats dubiously. “Can you eat all of those?”
“Of course I can!” Gilbert proclaims, watching as the doughnuts plop, one by one, into the oil.
“I’m not paying for those if you’re buying that much.” Ludwig tells his brother - Gilbert eyes him.
“I forgot my wallet?” he offers. When Ludwig rolls his eyes and reaches into his pocket his elder brother whoops and punches him on the arm.
Vash orders himself half a dozen Fasnachts - Roderich abhors powdered sugar on his sleeves and orders none. Gilbert tries to force a Fasnacht into the Austrian’s hands. Roderich swats him away. Gilbert stuffs his cheeks full of fried doughnuts and calls him a pansy.
Vash watches them with amusement, holding a paper bag of warm Fasnacht. Ludwig is left holding Gilbert’s mask as the ex-nation attempts to smear powdered sugar across the front of Roderich’s very sensible pea-coat. Roderich is too sophisticated to knee Gilbert in the balls, but the look on his face shows that he is thinking about it.
Vash offers Ludwig a Fasnacht with a look of utmost satisfaction. Ludwig is glad this holiday only comes once a year.
--
Notes:
Fasnacht is a Lent festival celebrated in Switzerland, southern Germany and western Austria.
Fasnachts are a powdered doughnut made for the festival, similar to the Polish pączki except they don’t usually have a filling.
The mask Gilbert is wearing is one of the masks people wear for this carnival - I couldn’t find any specific names for these masks, or what they represent (I think they represent fools or something?) Here’s a picture: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/41/Narrenzunft_Tettnang_Hopfennarr_Narrentreffen_Meßkirch_2006.jpg. It seems like Gilbert would be the type to put on a mask and annoy people with it.
There’s a Fasnacht carnival in Basel, Switzerland but it takes place the Monday after Ash Wednesday. It apparently is listed as one of the top fifty festivals in Europe.
Tolox, Spain
“What’s with the talcum powder?” is the second thing Romano asks Antonio when they arrive in the south of Spain (the first is: “I - it’s not like I missed you anyways!”)
Antonio has a grocery bag in one hand full of talcum powder, and the sunniest smile on his face.
“I have an errand to do in town!” he informs Lovino. “Come with me.”
“This place is so small,” Lovino complains as he tags along after the Spaniard, into the centre of the village where a large crowd is gathered. “Why are we here again? Couldn’t we have gone somewhere else for a holiday?”
Antonio beams and smiles and swings his grocery bag full of talcum powder. Lovino could swear that he was skipping.
“What are all these people waiting for?” Lovino asks - the villagers are gathered around in shorts and t-shirts, talking excitedly, milling around the fairly expansive square. Antonio stops in his tracks, sheds his jacket and places it in the plastic bag, removes the talcum powder in little sandwich bags. Lovino stares. Antonio pulls the Italian’s jacket off for him, stuffs it in the bag.
“What the hell, you bastard?” Lovino demands as Antonio pulls him into the throng of people. “I thought you said you had an errand to do? What are we doing?!”
Someone yells something in Spanish from within the crowd and Lovino is blinded by white. People are throwing talcum powder in to the air, showering the crowd in a film of white. Antonio dips his hands into the talcum powder and shoves them into Lovino’s face. The Italian sputters, turns red, screams, “You bastard, you’re dead!”
Antonio laughs and laughs, ducking into the crowd. There is powder on his Gucci shoes and Lovino placates himself with the thought of strangling Antonio before he grabs one of the bags of powder and follows him.
By the end of the day both Antonio and Lovino are covered in talcum powder. Lovino purposefully uses the shower first and spends two hours in it and wastes all the hot water because it serves the bastard right for not telling him about Powder Tuesday. He notices, grudgingly, that despite all that, Antonio has never looked happier.
--
Notes:
In Tolox, a small village in southern Spain, on the last day of their carnival, a day they call Powder Tuesday, the villagers get together and throw talcum powder at each other. Apparently the tradition is said to have originated way back from when Spain had a large Moorish population - a Christian and Moorish girl were said to have loved the same man, and worked in a bakery. Their argument was so heated that they started tossing flour at one another. Nowadays talcum powder is used, and it is thrown at everyone regardless of gender.
Another tradition is that boys who wanted to request a girl’s hand in marriage would throw flour at her. If the girl didn’t want that, she would stay in her home and lock all the doors. Then the boy would have to come up with ways to find her, and smear flour on her face. I just thought it would be a funny thing to have Antonio do D:
Stockholm, Sweden
Berwald thinks Tino is the most beautiful when he is like this, in the kitchen and smiling and telling Peter, “Wait until the timer rings and then you can take them out!”
Berwald watches them from the kitchen table, where he is mixing almond paste and whipping a bowl of cream. Tino laughs at Peter’s impatience, and helps the boy tie his apron. It is Berwald’s apron, too big for Peter’s frame, but Tino tucks and folds and eventually gets the apron to stop drooping. Peter pulls on some oven mitts and sets his face into a look of determination.
When the timer goes, Tino turns off the oven and steps aside to allow Peter to pull the tray of wheat buns from the oven. They join Berwald at the table to let the buns cool - Peter is impatient, tugging on his apron and waving his fork with gusto.
Tino shows Peter how to hollow out the wheat buns. He grasps a knife, slices open the top, and digs out light, frothy, warm bread from the centre. He deposits this bread into the almond paste, and Berwald stirs it until it is smooth. On his first try, Peter digs too deep and pokes a hole through the bun - Tino knows he has done it on purpose and lets him eat just this one before they return to the task at hand. Berwald watches them, only interrupting when a bit of bread alights on Tino’s sleeve. The Finn flashes him a smile when he reaches out to flick it off.
In Finland they fill these buns with strawberry jam as well as the traditional almond paste, and Berwald and Tino split the batch of wheat buns fifty-fifty - Berwald painstakingly pipes almond paste in a decorative swirl while Peter helps Tino shove sweet jam into the remaining buns.
Once they are finished, Peter announces he will taste test each one - after deliberation, in the tones of a child who does not know how to be diplomatic, he says, “Mama’s are tastier!”
Tino blushes and tells Peter not to call him “mama” - Berwald chews thoughtfully on a strawberry bun and adds, “I’s g’d.”
Tino blushes more, and dutifully picks up one of Berwald’s almond buns. “I always liked almond paste.” he offers. Berwald kisses the smudge of icing on Tino’s lip and smiles.
Peter covers his eyes and squeals, “Gross, Papa!”
--
Notes: Semla are a bun made in various countries for Lent. In Finland they are called fastlagsbulle (thank you taivaspoika for the correction!). Other countries, like the Scandinavian countries and Estonia and Latvia, make the buns for Fat Tuesday as well. As you probably guessed, they are wheat buns that you hollow out and fill with a paste made of almonds and bread crumbs. In Finland they also fill it with strawberry jam. These buns can also be served with a bowl of hot milk, and apparently one of the Swedish kings died of digestion problems after eating a meal that included semla (it was his favourite dessert).
Ashbourne, England
England stoops to lace up his cleats - Scotland takes this time to elbow him in the small of the back. England calls his brother a nasty name, before saying, “Ready to lose, then?”
Scotland laughs, a belly laugh that sends some of the younger football players scrambling with nervousness. It is hard not to be nervous around Scotland when he is playing football, England admits in his head. With his brother's tall burly frame and rather menacing grin, he can send even the most seasoned football player scrambling.
“Tha’s highly unlikely!” Scotland informs his younger brother with a smug grin, rubbing his chin absently. Ireland comes gallivanting up to them with a cheeky grin and a coin in his hand.
“Who’s going to be on his team this year?” Ireland asks Scotland, jerking a thumb at England as if he is some sort of misbehaving pet - the dark-haired nation grimaces.
“I call heads.” he says. Ireland flips the coin, smacks it down, peeks.
“Tails.” he calls, grin widening. “Sorry, Scot. Better luck next time.”
“Piss.” Scotland says sourly, punting his brother fondly over the head. England looks on with crossed arms.
“I expect you two would be old enough to have the manners to talk like I’m actually here.” he points out dryly.
“Says the man who used to play this with a severed head.” Ireland drawls. England glowers indignantly at his two brothers.
“That was rather unnecessary.” he sniffs. “That was a long time ago.”
Scotland smirks. “What’s the point?” he asks, then saunters over to where most of the town are gathered around a large football. “You coming, runt?”
England rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, I’m coming, you great brute.” he mutters to himself. Ireland jostles him as they push their way into the crowd.
Scotland and Ireland can push him around as much as they like - when the game starts, England makes sure to trip them both, regardless of what side they may be on.
After all, they were just family.
--
Notes:
In Ashbourne, the Royal Shrovetide Football match is played on Fat Tuesday and Ash Wednesday, from 2pm to 10pm each day. Most of the town are divided into teams - the Up’Ards and the Down’Ards. The goals are placed three miles apart at two of the town’s mills, and the ball has to be carried across town to one of the goals. There are several rules, like, you can’t kill anyone, you can’t transport the ball in a car, you can’t hide the ball from view, and you can’t play after 10pm. For some reason it seems like a lot of fun. I like the idea of the Isle brothers getting together to celebrate Fat Tuesday, although there must be a whole shitload of tension up in that thing.
One speculation of the origin of this event (dating back to the 11th century, WTF), is that it used to be played with the severed head of a newly executed prisoner. Bit nasty, but that's English history for you.
Copenhagen, Denmark
“Norge, Norge, Norge!”
Norway resolutely stares down at his Fastelavnsbolle and hopes to God Denmark eventually gives up and shuts up.
“No-o-orge~ you’re going to miss it!”
Oh, wait. When did Denmark ever give up on being annoying? Sighing, Norway lifts his head in time to see Denmark waving cheerfully at him from the crowd of people surrounding a barrel suspended from a lamp post. Beside Norway, Iceland looks impassively on.
“Do you think he’s going to do it?” he asks. Norway grimaces.
“I hope he doesn’t, or we’ll never hear the end of it.”
Denmark has dragged the both of them to Copenhagen with him, babbling something about becoming the king of cats and beating a barrel. Both the brothers had been sufficiently confused until a local had explained to them that the slå katten af tønden was a very common Shrove Tuesday tradition. On the side of the barrel there is a crudely painted black cat - the barrel is already hanging oddly from the rope, and its side is smashed in. Several people have taken their turn already, and now Denmark has the wooden bat in both hands, playful eyes narrowed in intense concentration. Then he swings, a low blow, near the bottom of the barrel and there is a crack and the entire bottom gives out, spilling wrapped candies and oranges onto the ground below. Several children squeal and dive for the pile before they are overwhelmed by the general throng.
Norway claps politely before he notices Denmark’s entire face has gone white and the crowd is laughing and chanting.
“Kattedronning, kattedronning!” they chant - “Queen of cats, queen of cats!”
Someone calls out, “Your Majesty!” Another shouts, “Thank you, queenie!”
Denmark’s eyes meet Norway’s and he mouths something - obligingly Norway steps into the crowd and makes his way over to Denmark, who is being heartily clapped on the back.
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he asked. Denmark pouts.
“No!” he laments, but is interrupted by another crack - someone else has knocked the rest of the shattered barrel onto the ground, and the crowd’s chant turns to, “Kattekonge, kattekonge!” - “King of cats, king of cats!”
“I wanted to be kattekonge.” Denmark informs Norway, and Norway cannot help the smile that spreads across his face.
“But you are a queen now!” he points out. “How very lucky for you.”
“No-o-orge!” Denmark whines, but he is being led away by some people in the crowd, over to where the barrel lies discarded on the ground, and is promptly given a paper crown. The man who finished off the barrel is given one too, and jokingly blows a kiss at Denmark, who looks thoroughly unamused with the situation.
“It fits you!” is what Norway wants to yell, but he is laughing too hard to speak.
Iceland just watches and shakes his head.
--
Notes:
Fat Tuesday in Denmark is called Fastelavn and it is a time when children dress up and receive treats. Both Denmark and Norway have the Fastelavnsbolle, which is similar to the Swedish semla I mentioned earlier. Interesting to note that only a small area of Iceland celebrates something similar to Fastelavn.
A traditional event that occurs during Fastelavn is slå katten af tønden - “hit the cat out of the barrel”. It’s like a pinata, although I think historically there actually used to be a black cat in the barrel, so when people hit it they were warding off bad luck. Nowadays it is (luckily) just filled with oranges and candy, and only has a painting of a cat on the side. People take turns hitting it, and the one who breaks it to make all the candy come out is called the kattedronning, the “queen of cats”. The one who makes the barrel fall off completely is the kattekonge, the “king of cats”. Poor Denmark only wants to show off for Norway, and now look where it’s got him!
New Orleans, Louisiana
“Thanks for coming with me,” Alfred tells Francis, earnestly, as they move through the crowd of people in the hazy February air. “Arthur said he couldn’t because he was playing football.” The young man frowns, hit with a sudden thought. “You know, I think he’s just making excuses. Last year he said he couldn’t come because he was playing Ding Dong Ditch. Who would believe that??”
Francis rouses himself from thought. “Why didn’t you ask Mathieu if he wanted to come instead of me?” he asks with half-interest. Alfred shoots him a tired look.
“You know how he gets about his...ice things.” he mutters. “Seriously, it’s a billion degrees below zero up there and he’s probably out making snowmen or eating snow with maple syrup on it or whatever the hell else he does...”
“I see...” Francis doesn’t, really (as if he knows what Matthew gets up to!). “Well, I was always interested in seeing what you do around here.”
“Ah, that’s easy!” Alfred says - he has slipped into an easy Louisiana drawl somewhere between the end of dinner and the uncorking of the sherry in Francis’s hotel room. “We celebrate!”
One of the floats drifts by on the streets, full of brightly painted people, loud music, screaming cheers - from a second story window a man throws down a handful of beads. A girl tackles another in order to gain possession of them. Francis wrinkles his nose.
“You are aware of what Mardi Gras is about?” he asks this once-colony as they thread through the streets. Alfred looks surprised.
“Well, sure!” he laughs. “Fat Tuesday - feast before the fast, I get it. I know I get criticized a lot ‘cause this isn’t exactly...er, what you’d call Christian,” he admits as the girl in front of them pulls up her tube top to show the world. “But it’s sort of...become it’s own thing, you know? It’s a tradition, a celebration!”
“I suppose you could call it that.” Francis begrudges, although he does appreciate the view he has been given as the girl wraps some beads around her neck in triumph.
The lights on the Louisiana streets are bright - people are shouting and Francis thinks this is unlike anything he’s ever witnessed before. Alfred certainly is good at taking ideas and making them uniquely his own. He cannot deny the boy that.
A sly smile builds up on the Frenchman’s face. “Have you ever gotten any of those beads, Alfred?” he asks.
Alfred looks a little taken aback. “No?” he answers. “Why would I?”
Francis feigns incredulous surprise. “Ah, but you are America! You have taken this celebration and made it your own, but you are not able to get a few beads for your efforts?”
Alfred pulls a face that could almost be a pout. “Hey, I could get ‘em!” he proclaims - a little too loud, or maybe that is the sherry kicking in, and it is almost painfully obvious that nowadays this boy does not usually drink anything stronger than his piss-poor beer. “If I, you know, if I tried.”
“Perhaps you should follow mademoiselle’s example,” Francis nods to the girl from before, who is now leaning heavily against someone she has just met, “And give someone an...incentive to give you some.”
“Yeah?” Alfred looks dubious. “You think that’ll work?”
Oh, it is going to be a good night, Francis thinks as he skims fingers along the hem of Alfred’s shirt.
“Of course,” he purrs. “Let me help you out of this...let us see how many beads you have by the end of the evening, hm?”
Truly, Francis thinks, as Alfred cheerfully shucks his shirt off and attempts to garner some Mardi Gras beads of his own, thank God for New Orleans.
--
Notes:
Haha, look at me dodging out of writing a story about New Orleans’ Mardi Gras because I would be here all night D: I don’t think this needs any explanation, because hey, it’s American Mardi Gras. The beads are thrown during celebrations, and girls usually do idiotic things like take their tops off in order to attain these beads. They cost you a fortune and there was this awesome mini-documentary made about where the beads come from (this factory in Asia), and how the girls making them have no idea where they go or how much money people pay to have these beads to throw at people. Often criticized as completely missing the point of Shrove Tuesday but you can’t really deny that in a way the American Mardi Gras is the most “famous” of Mardi Gras celebrations...well, I mean, at least in the Americas. I guess Rio de Janeiro might disagree. Anyways, I can imagine Francis having total disdain for what America’s done to the holiday, but eventually being....won over a little.
When Alfred mentions that last year Arthur said he was playing "Ding Dong Ditch"...on the Monday before Lent there's a Cornish feast called "Nickanan Night" at which time it was common to play pranks on neighbours and friends. "Nickanan" refers to running up to someone's door, ringing the doorbell and then running away - otherwise known as "Ding Dong Ditch". Seems like something Scotland and Ireland could convince England to do if he was drunk enough.
Also, the "ice thing" in Canada is referring to the Québec Winter Festival, which starts in January and coincides with Shrove Tuesday. Mardi Gras celebrations are generally larger and more heralded in the French-speaking part of Canada, coinciding with the Catholic vs. Protestant divide.
--
"Tomorrow we will fast and abstain from meat. Today we feast. We thank you for the abundance of gifts you shower upon us. We thank you especially for one another..."
--
END
--
Notes: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed these very short and pretty lame stories! I learned a lot when writing this and if someone found this interesting/enjoyable well then that’s great! B.C. time it is still Shrove Tuesday (OK a half hour from midnight actually...), which means my original goal of posting this on Fat Tuesday still holds! I ate my pancakes and am totally good for the next forty days or so. Now, I'm going to bed. Thanks again!
Author: grosse_averse
Characters: Poland, Lithuania; Russia, Belarus, Ukraine; Germany, Prussia, Austria, Switzerland; Spain, South Italy; Sweden, Finland, Sealand; England, Ireland (OC), Scotland (OC), Denmark, Norway, Iceland; America, France
Rating: PG I guess?
Warnings: None...except for this deals with a religious feast day some do not celebrate?
Summary: Eight ways to celebrate the beginning of Lent, from around the world.
Notes: I got the idea for this story while I was doing some random research. My father is a Roman Catholic and I was baptized as such. My mother, from a family of Ukrainians, is Greek Orthodox. I have never identified myself as Christian, but recently took an interest in religion and decided to try observing Lent this year.
The idea of “Shrove Tuesday” or “Fat Tuesday” - finding out all the different ways different cultures celebrate it, and the extreme love or hate for the “commercialism” the New Orleans Mardi Gras festival exploits - was too appealing to pass up. I’ve decided only to focus on a few select countries, and about funny/interesting things I found out that I wanted to write about. My knowledge only extends so far as my rudimentary Internet researching skills, so if I’ve got something wrong please feel free to correct me!
Warsaw, Poland
Poland’s house smells like plums when Lithuania enters, using the key he was given years ago. Trust Poland not to have changed the locks on his doors since...
Well, since forever. Lithuania slips off his shoes and calls out, “Poland?”
Oil sizzles from the kitchen. Poland exclaims in delight, and there is a shuffling of feet. The blond nation comes tearing out into the entrance hallway, pink apron fluttering as he flings himself at Lithuania. Lithuania buckles, catches him round the waist and simply holds him, holds Poland as the blond chatters in his ear about work and home and how the jam is just cooling and “like, have you grown? I haven’t seen you in absolute forever!”
There’s that forever again. “I think you shrunk.” he teases gently, and laughs at the soft open-palmed slap Poland delivers to his shoulder.
“I’m not going to let you taste the jam if you’re going to be like that.” Poland sniffs, a smile twitching at his lips, and spins on his heel, grabbing Lithuania’s hand. “Help me.”
Lithuania remembers Poland’s pączki - how could he not? Poland has everything ready, the dough and the jam and the little puncture holes in the sides of the soft round dough. Lithuania rolls up his sleeves. Poland throws a powder blue apron at him.
“C’mon!” he picks up the bowl of stewed plum jam. Lithaunia smiles.
“Didn’t you used to put rose jam in here?” he asks, remembering the taste. Poland shrugs with an open mouthed smile.
“I thought I would try something else.” he says. “Here, hold this.”
Lithuania examines his friend as Poland fills the pączki, painstakingly, until they bulge and puff. The dough smells faintly of alcohol, fizzles when Poland drops it from a pair of tongs into the hot oil. Poland is still talking and Lithuania can only watch his lips move, the way he flips his hand back and forth for effect, the way he stands against the counter with his hip cocked.
“I missed you.” Lithuania says, quickly, as Poland takes a breath in between topics. Poland glances at him with an expression that is half-surprised and half-saddened.
Lithuania thinks it is because he hasn’t said that in forever.
But then Poland smiles, as brightly as the rye fields, and says, “I missed you too, Liet! Aw, you’re so cute - you get two pączki for that!”
And Lithuania smiles and laughs and reaches out to hug Poland with one arm, ignoring his cries of, “Wa~it, Liet, the pączki!”, and drowns himself in the sunshine of that smile.
--
Notes:
-Fat Thursday is celebrated in Poland (and Germany), similar to Fat Tuesday in the regard that it marks the last Thursday before Lent and is pretty much a day dedicated to eating.
-Pączki are traditional Polish doughnuts served on Fat Thursday - fried dough with a filling (usually with powidl, a plum jam, or with rose-hip jam). They usually have a bit of alcohol added to them so that when they are fried the hot oil does not reach too deep into the dough and ruin the filling.
Moscow, Russia
The girl in the center of the crowd has been lit on fire, Ukraine notes idly, fingering the edge of her shawl. They have started without Brother- he will be so disappointed if he misses it. The crowd is joyful on this Sunday evening, and a rich smell fills the air, from the vendors at the edges of the square. The girl’s skirt is a rustic orange, with embroidered yellow roses, and Ukraine sighs as it is licked up by flames. What a pretty skirt. Such a waste.
Someone presses something into her hands, a paper napkin weighed down by something that warms her palm. Belarus has returned from the vendor with bliny, steaming and golden. Wordlessly her younger sister hands her a plastic fork - Ukraine thanks her for it, warmly.
“Where is Vanya?” she asks. “This is his favourite part!”
Belarus points off, back towards the stall. “Napkins.” she says.
Ukraine looks down at her blin with fondness. After so many years of distant relations, she is touched to see that her baby sister still remembers her favourite pancake topping - dark berry jam has been hastily spread across the top of her pancakes. Belarus, for her part, favors a dollop of sour cream with her treat, and she dips her pieces of blin sparingly into it as she eats. Ukraine likes to watch her sister when she eats blin - so serious, so prudent! Even back when she was a child and could have as much sour cream as she liked, Belarus only took what she needed and still had something to spare.
Russia lumbers up to them with his blin cupped in one large palm. He is still wearing his scarf but he has shed his coat in favor of brown corduroy pants and a thick gray shirt.
“Ah, they have started!” he exclaims, eyes lighting up as he takes in the girl and her flaming skirt. Ukraine heaves another sigh at the loss of such a lovely article of clothing and Russia throws her a worried glance.
“Sister?” he asks, and she shakes herself out of her thoughts. Today is not a day to be selfishly thinking of skirts. Today she spends time with her family and celebrates.
“Sorry.” she apologizes, holds out her fork. “Would you like to try some of mine, Vanya?”
Russia nods and lets her push her plastic fork past his lips. He makes a noise of agreement and pleasure, and Ukraine smiles. Then her brother cuts a piece of his own thin pancake and holds it up for her to eat.
Ukraine likes the tartness of the jam; Belarus prefers the rich tang of sour cream; as for Russia, he adores honey with his bliny, loves when it seeps into the cake and stains it sickly sweet. Russia wants everything to be sweet, to be good, to be perfect - so much so that sometimes he can’t tell when it is too much. Ukraine cannot count the number of times she has seen Russia drown his bliny or his tea with honey and sit there, still smiling.
Belarus pushes at their sides, suddenly jealous that Brother’s attention is so focused on Ukraine. Ukraine smiles at her, reaches out to tuck a wayward strand of silk-pale hair behind her sister’s ear as Russia obligingly cuts a piece for Belarus. In return, Belarus offers up her sour cream to both her siblings, who sigh and agree that yes, the sour cream goes well with the dough. Russia is relaxed, his face clear and free of worries - Belarus does not stand too close to her brother today, makes a point of smoothing away her often menacing expression, free hand tucked in her coat pocket. Ukraine’s heart swells with love and contentment. She gives Belarus some jam coated bliny to complete the cycle, and the siblings stand there for a minute to savor the mix of flavors, sweet-tart-tang in their mouths.
Children are shouting. To their left, women dance in their traditional Russian outfits. As the three of them watch the straw effigy of Kostroma go up in flames, Ukraine feels at peace. Goodbye winter, she thinks, watching her sister’s face glow in the firelight, her brother’s grin gleaming, hello spring. With this, we are reborn.
--
Notes:
In the Orthodox religion, Lent starts on a Monday instead of the Western Christian “Ash Wednesday”. The week before Lent, there is a Russian festival called Maslenitsa - which was originally a pagan festival to celebrate the ending of winter (hence eating pancakes that look like the sun). I’m not quite sure if this is exclusively a “Russian festival” (many of the sites I visited on this festival boasted it as a “Russian cultural festival” or a “Russian folk festival”), or if Ukrainians and Belorussians also partake in it as well - I am assuming so since it is an Orthodox religious event! But I like the idea of the three siblings going to this festival together, year after year. (plus there is fist fighting and fireworks and maybe even some bears, which Ivan would very much enjoy!!)
bliny (the Russian word for them) are thin pancakes commonly eaten before Lent - since butter, milk and eggs are forbidden during Lent, and those are perishable items, it was common practice on Fat Tuesday to get rid of your butter and eggs by making AN EXTRAORDINARY AMOUNT OF PANCAKES.
Kostroma is a straw scarecrow of a girl that is burned at the end of the Maslenitsa, on Sunday evening of the festival week. I’m not quite sure why, exactly, people burn her during Maslenitsa, though some people think she represents an ancient Slavic goddess, left over from when this was a pagan festival.
Rottweil, Germany
Roderich does not look particularly happy - then again, Roderich never really looks happy when Gilbert was around. Though, Ludwig reasons, this could be because Gilbert is currently wearing a Hopfennarr mask and trying to get Roderich to wear one too.
Roderich maintains every year that it is tradition that forces him to come out with Ludwig and Gilbert. Gilbert thinks it is because Roderich is actually too much of a pansy to be alone on Fat Tuesday, and since Elizabeta is probably out “stomping on heads or whatever Hungarians do to celebrate this shit” he is left to rely on their “awesomeness”.
When Roderich shows up with Vash, however, even Gilbert looks a little taken aback - although it is hard to tell, since he is wearing a mask. Vash glowers sourly at him from underneath his white hat.
“What the fuck are you wearing?” he spits. Gilbert flips him the bird.
Vash might be the reason Roderich looks so unhappy, Ludwig thinks.
They are meeting in the town of Rottweil for the Fasnacht celebrations. Ludwig knows some of Vash’s people have a big celebration for Lent next week, so he is a bit puzzled as to why the blond nation would be tagging along with them. Gilbert doesn’t care as long as he gets to be in the parade.
“Liechtenstein said I should go.” Vash admits with a scowl. “She thinks it would be good for me.”
“What, are you married to your sister now?” Gilbert crows - a second later he hits the ground when the neutral country kicks him viciously in the shins.
Ludwig is already getting a headache and it is still early.
Then Gilbert is pulling off his mask and shouting something at them from afar, and Vash is heading towards an outdoor stall and Roderich is sniffing and sighing and rolling up his sleeves and saying, “Well, we had better get it over with.” Ludwig is confused until he smells frying doughnuts.
This must be the only time Vash permits Gilbert to stand so close to him, as they line up along the front of the stall and Gilbert crows, “Hallo, can we get fifty Fasnachts?”
“Fifty?” Vash repeats dubiously. “Can you eat all of those?”
“Of course I can!” Gilbert proclaims, watching as the doughnuts plop, one by one, into the oil.
“I’m not paying for those if you’re buying that much.” Ludwig tells his brother - Gilbert eyes him.
“I forgot my wallet?” he offers. When Ludwig rolls his eyes and reaches into his pocket his elder brother whoops and punches him on the arm.
Vash orders himself half a dozen Fasnachts - Roderich abhors powdered sugar on his sleeves and orders none. Gilbert tries to force a Fasnacht into the Austrian’s hands. Roderich swats him away. Gilbert stuffs his cheeks full of fried doughnuts and calls him a pansy.
Vash watches them with amusement, holding a paper bag of warm Fasnacht. Ludwig is left holding Gilbert’s mask as the ex-nation attempts to smear powdered sugar across the front of Roderich’s very sensible pea-coat. Roderich is too sophisticated to knee Gilbert in the balls, but the look on his face shows that he is thinking about it.
Vash offers Ludwig a Fasnacht with a look of utmost satisfaction. Ludwig is glad this holiday only comes once a year.
--
Notes:
Fasnacht is a Lent festival celebrated in Switzerland, southern Germany and western Austria.
Fasnachts are a powdered doughnut made for the festival, similar to the Polish pączki except they don’t usually have a filling.
The mask Gilbert is wearing is one of the masks people wear for this carnival - I couldn’t find any specific names for these masks, or what they represent (I think they represent fools or something?) Here’s a picture: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/41/Narrenzunft_Tettnang_Hopfennarr_Narrentreffen_Meßkirch_2006.jpg. It seems like Gilbert would be the type to put on a mask and annoy people with it.
There’s a Fasnacht carnival in Basel, Switzerland but it takes place the Monday after Ash Wednesday. It apparently is listed as one of the top fifty festivals in Europe.
Tolox, Spain
“What’s with the talcum powder?” is the second thing Romano asks Antonio when they arrive in the south of Spain (the first is: “I - it’s not like I missed you anyways!”)
Antonio has a grocery bag in one hand full of talcum powder, and the sunniest smile on his face.
“I have an errand to do in town!” he informs Lovino. “Come with me.”
“This place is so small,” Lovino complains as he tags along after the Spaniard, into the centre of the village where a large crowd is gathered. “Why are we here again? Couldn’t we have gone somewhere else for a holiday?”
Antonio beams and smiles and swings his grocery bag full of talcum powder. Lovino could swear that he was skipping.
“What are all these people waiting for?” Lovino asks - the villagers are gathered around in shorts and t-shirts, talking excitedly, milling around the fairly expansive square. Antonio stops in his tracks, sheds his jacket and places it in the plastic bag, removes the talcum powder in little sandwich bags. Lovino stares. Antonio pulls the Italian’s jacket off for him, stuffs it in the bag.
“What the hell, you bastard?” Lovino demands as Antonio pulls him into the throng of people. “I thought you said you had an errand to do? What are we doing?!”
Someone yells something in Spanish from within the crowd and Lovino is blinded by white. People are throwing talcum powder in to the air, showering the crowd in a film of white. Antonio dips his hands into the talcum powder and shoves them into Lovino’s face. The Italian sputters, turns red, screams, “You bastard, you’re dead!”
Antonio laughs and laughs, ducking into the crowd. There is powder on his Gucci shoes and Lovino placates himself with the thought of strangling Antonio before he grabs one of the bags of powder and follows him.
By the end of the day both Antonio and Lovino are covered in talcum powder. Lovino purposefully uses the shower first and spends two hours in it and wastes all the hot water because it serves the bastard right for not telling him about Powder Tuesday. He notices, grudgingly, that despite all that, Antonio has never looked happier.
--
Notes:
In Tolox, a small village in southern Spain, on the last day of their carnival, a day they call Powder Tuesday, the villagers get together and throw talcum powder at each other. Apparently the tradition is said to have originated way back from when Spain had a large Moorish population - a Christian and Moorish girl were said to have loved the same man, and worked in a bakery. Their argument was so heated that they started tossing flour at one another. Nowadays talcum powder is used, and it is thrown at everyone regardless of gender.
Another tradition is that boys who wanted to request a girl’s hand in marriage would throw flour at her. If the girl didn’t want that, she would stay in her home and lock all the doors. Then the boy would have to come up with ways to find her, and smear flour on her face. I just thought it would be a funny thing to have Antonio do D:
Stockholm, Sweden
Berwald thinks Tino is the most beautiful when he is like this, in the kitchen and smiling and telling Peter, “Wait until the timer rings and then you can take them out!”
Berwald watches them from the kitchen table, where he is mixing almond paste and whipping a bowl of cream. Tino laughs at Peter’s impatience, and helps the boy tie his apron. It is Berwald’s apron, too big for Peter’s frame, but Tino tucks and folds and eventually gets the apron to stop drooping. Peter pulls on some oven mitts and sets his face into a look of determination.
When the timer goes, Tino turns off the oven and steps aside to allow Peter to pull the tray of wheat buns from the oven. They join Berwald at the table to let the buns cool - Peter is impatient, tugging on his apron and waving his fork with gusto.
Tino shows Peter how to hollow out the wheat buns. He grasps a knife, slices open the top, and digs out light, frothy, warm bread from the centre. He deposits this bread into the almond paste, and Berwald stirs it until it is smooth. On his first try, Peter digs too deep and pokes a hole through the bun - Tino knows he has done it on purpose and lets him eat just this one before they return to the task at hand. Berwald watches them, only interrupting when a bit of bread alights on Tino’s sleeve. The Finn flashes him a smile when he reaches out to flick it off.
In Finland they fill these buns with strawberry jam as well as the traditional almond paste, and Berwald and Tino split the batch of wheat buns fifty-fifty - Berwald painstakingly pipes almond paste in a decorative swirl while Peter helps Tino shove sweet jam into the remaining buns.
Once they are finished, Peter announces he will taste test each one - after deliberation, in the tones of a child who does not know how to be diplomatic, he says, “Mama’s are tastier!”
Tino blushes and tells Peter not to call him “mama” - Berwald chews thoughtfully on a strawberry bun and adds, “I’s g’d.”
Tino blushes more, and dutifully picks up one of Berwald’s almond buns. “I always liked almond paste.” he offers. Berwald kisses the smudge of icing on Tino’s lip and smiles.
Peter covers his eyes and squeals, “Gross, Papa!”
--
Notes: Semla are a bun made in various countries for Lent. In Finland they are called fastlagsbulle (thank you taivaspoika for the correction!). Other countries, like the Scandinavian countries and Estonia and Latvia, make the buns for Fat Tuesday as well. As you probably guessed, they are wheat buns that you hollow out and fill with a paste made of almonds and bread crumbs. In Finland they also fill it with strawberry jam. These buns can also be served with a bowl of hot milk, and apparently one of the Swedish kings died of digestion problems after eating a meal that included semla (it was his favourite dessert).
Ashbourne, England
England stoops to lace up his cleats - Scotland takes this time to elbow him in the small of the back. England calls his brother a nasty name, before saying, “Ready to lose, then?”
Scotland laughs, a belly laugh that sends some of the younger football players scrambling with nervousness. It is hard not to be nervous around Scotland when he is playing football, England admits in his head. With his brother's tall burly frame and rather menacing grin, he can send even the most seasoned football player scrambling.
“Tha’s highly unlikely!” Scotland informs his younger brother with a smug grin, rubbing his chin absently. Ireland comes gallivanting up to them with a cheeky grin and a coin in his hand.
“Who’s going to be on his team this year?” Ireland asks Scotland, jerking a thumb at England as if he is some sort of misbehaving pet - the dark-haired nation grimaces.
“I call heads.” he says. Ireland flips the coin, smacks it down, peeks.
“Tails.” he calls, grin widening. “Sorry, Scot. Better luck next time.”
“Piss.” Scotland says sourly, punting his brother fondly over the head. England looks on with crossed arms.
“I expect you two would be old enough to have the manners to talk like I’m actually here.” he points out dryly.
“Says the man who used to play this with a severed head.” Ireland drawls. England glowers indignantly at his two brothers.
“That was rather unnecessary.” he sniffs. “That was a long time ago.”
Scotland smirks. “What’s the point?” he asks, then saunters over to where most of the town are gathered around a large football. “You coming, runt?”
England rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, I’m coming, you great brute.” he mutters to himself. Ireland jostles him as they push their way into the crowd.
Scotland and Ireland can push him around as much as they like - when the game starts, England makes sure to trip them both, regardless of what side they may be on.
After all, they were just family.
--
Notes:
In Ashbourne, the Royal Shrovetide Football match is played on Fat Tuesday and Ash Wednesday, from 2pm to 10pm each day. Most of the town are divided into teams - the Up’Ards and the Down’Ards. The goals are placed three miles apart at two of the town’s mills, and the ball has to be carried across town to one of the goals. There are several rules, like, you can’t kill anyone, you can’t transport the ball in a car, you can’t hide the ball from view, and you can’t play after 10pm. For some reason it seems like a lot of fun. I like the idea of the Isle brothers getting together to celebrate Fat Tuesday, although there must be a whole shitload of tension up in that thing.
One speculation of the origin of this event (dating back to the 11th century, WTF), is that it used to be played with the severed head of a newly executed prisoner. Bit nasty, but that's English history for you.
Copenhagen, Denmark
“Norge, Norge, Norge!”
Norway resolutely stares down at his Fastelavnsbolle and hopes to God Denmark eventually gives up and shuts up.
“No-o-orge~ you’re going to miss it!”
Oh, wait. When did Denmark ever give up on being annoying? Sighing, Norway lifts his head in time to see Denmark waving cheerfully at him from the crowd of people surrounding a barrel suspended from a lamp post. Beside Norway, Iceland looks impassively on.
“Do you think he’s going to do it?” he asks. Norway grimaces.
“I hope he doesn’t, or we’ll never hear the end of it.”
Denmark has dragged the both of them to Copenhagen with him, babbling something about becoming the king of cats and beating a barrel. Both the brothers had been sufficiently confused until a local had explained to them that the slå katten af tønden was a very common Shrove Tuesday tradition. On the side of the barrel there is a crudely painted black cat - the barrel is already hanging oddly from the rope, and its side is smashed in. Several people have taken their turn already, and now Denmark has the wooden bat in both hands, playful eyes narrowed in intense concentration. Then he swings, a low blow, near the bottom of the barrel and there is a crack and the entire bottom gives out, spilling wrapped candies and oranges onto the ground below. Several children squeal and dive for the pile before they are overwhelmed by the general throng.
Norway claps politely before he notices Denmark’s entire face has gone white and the crowd is laughing and chanting.
“Kattedronning, kattedronning!” they chant - “Queen of cats, queen of cats!”
Someone calls out, “Your Majesty!” Another shouts, “Thank you, queenie!”
Denmark’s eyes meet Norway’s and he mouths something - obligingly Norway steps into the crowd and makes his way over to Denmark, who is being heartily clapped on the back.
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he asked. Denmark pouts.
“No!” he laments, but is interrupted by another crack - someone else has knocked the rest of the shattered barrel onto the ground, and the crowd’s chant turns to, “Kattekonge, kattekonge!” - “King of cats, king of cats!”
“I wanted to be kattekonge.” Denmark informs Norway, and Norway cannot help the smile that spreads across his face.
“But you are a queen now!” he points out. “How very lucky for you.”
“No-o-orge!” Denmark whines, but he is being led away by some people in the crowd, over to where the barrel lies discarded on the ground, and is promptly given a paper crown. The man who finished off the barrel is given one too, and jokingly blows a kiss at Denmark, who looks thoroughly unamused with the situation.
“It fits you!” is what Norway wants to yell, but he is laughing too hard to speak.
Iceland just watches and shakes his head.
--
Notes:
Fat Tuesday in Denmark is called Fastelavn and it is a time when children dress up and receive treats. Both Denmark and Norway have the Fastelavnsbolle, which is similar to the Swedish semla I mentioned earlier. Interesting to note that only a small area of Iceland celebrates something similar to Fastelavn.
A traditional event that occurs during Fastelavn is slå katten af tønden - “hit the cat out of the barrel”. It’s like a pinata, although I think historically there actually used to be a black cat in the barrel, so when people hit it they were warding off bad luck. Nowadays it is (luckily) just filled with oranges and candy, and only has a painting of a cat on the side. People take turns hitting it, and the one who breaks it to make all the candy come out is called the kattedronning, the “queen of cats”. The one who makes the barrel fall off completely is the kattekonge, the “king of cats”. Poor Denmark only wants to show off for Norway, and now look where it’s got him!
New Orleans, Louisiana
“Thanks for coming with me,” Alfred tells Francis, earnestly, as they move through the crowd of people in the hazy February air. “Arthur said he couldn’t because he was playing football.” The young man frowns, hit with a sudden thought. “You know, I think he’s just making excuses. Last year he said he couldn’t come because he was playing Ding Dong Ditch. Who would believe that??”
Francis rouses himself from thought. “Why didn’t you ask Mathieu if he wanted to come instead of me?” he asks with half-interest. Alfred shoots him a tired look.
“You know how he gets about his...ice things.” he mutters. “Seriously, it’s a billion degrees below zero up there and he’s probably out making snowmen or eating snow with maple syrup on it or whatever the hell else he does...”
“I see...” Francis doesn’t, really (as if he knows what Matthew gets up to!). “Well, I was always interested in seeing what you do around here.”
“Ah, that’s easy!” Alfred says - he has slipped into an easy Louisiana drawl somewhere between the end of dinner and the uncorking of the sherry in Francis’s hotel room. “We celebrate!”
One of the floats drifts by on the streets, full of brightly painted people, loud music, screaming cheers - from a second story window a man throws down a handful of beads. A girl tackles another in order to gain possession of them. Francis wrinkles his nose.
“You are aware of what Mardi Gras is about?” he asks this once-colony as they thread through the streets. Alfred looks surprised.
“Well, sure!” he laughs. “Fat Tuesday - feast before the fast, I get it. I know I get criticized a lot ‘cause this isn’t exactly...er, what you’d call Christian,” he admits as the girl in front of them pulls up her tube top to show the world. “But it’s sort of...become it’s own thing, you know? It’s a tradition, a celebration!”
“I suppose you could call it that.” Francis begrudges, although he does appreciate the view he has been given as the girl wraps some beads around her neck in triumph.
The lights on the Louisiana streets are bright - people are shouting and Francis thinks this is unlike anything he’s ever witnessed before. Alfred certainly is good at taking ideas and making them uniquely his own. He cannot deny the boy that.
A sly smile builds up on the Frenchman’s face. “Have you ever gotten any of those beads, Alfred?” he asks.
Alfred looks a little taken aback. “No?” he answers. “Why would I?”
Francis feigns incredulous surprise. “Ah, but you are America! You have taken this celebration and made it your own, but you are not able to get a few beads for your efforts?”
Alfred pulls a face that could almost be a pout. “Hey, I could get ‘em!” he proclaims - a little too loud, or maybe that is the sherry kicking in, and it is almost painfully obvious that nowadays this boy does not usually drink anything stronger than his piss-poor beer. “If I, you know, if I tried.”
“Perhaps you should follow mademoiselle’s example,” Francis nods to the girl from before, who is now leaning heavily against someone she has just met, “And give someone an...incentive to give you some.”
“Yeah?” Alfred looks dubious. “You think that’ll work?”
Oh, it is going to be a good night, Francis thinks as he skims fingers along the hem of Alfred’s shirt.
“Of course,” he purrs. “Let me help you out of this...let us see how many beads you have by the end of the evening, hm?”
Truly, Francis thinks, as Alfred cheerfully shucks his shirt off and attempts to garner some Mardi Gras beads of his own, thank God for New Orleans.
--
Notes:
Haha, look at me dodging out of writing a story about New Orleans’ Mardi Gras because I would be here all night D: I don’t think this needs any explanation, because hey, it’s American Mardi Gras. The beads are thrown during celebrations, and girls usually do idiotic things like take their tops off in order to attain these beads. They cost you a fortune and there was this awesome mini-documentary made about where the beads come from (this factory in Asia), and how the girls making them have no idea where they go or how much money people pay to have these beads to throw at people. Often criticized as completely missing the point of Shrove Tuesday but you can’t really deny that in a way the American Mardi Gras is the most “famous” of Mardi Gras celebrations...well, I mean, at least in the Americas. I guess Rio de Janeiro might disagree. Anyways, I can imagine Francis having total disdain for what America’s done to the holiday, but eventually being....won over a little.
When Alfred mentions that last year Arthur said he was playing "Ding Dong Ditch"...on the Monday before Lent there's a Cornish feast called "Nickanan Night" at which time it was common to play pranks on neighbours and friends. "Nickanan" refers to running up to someone's door, ringing the doorbell and then running away - otherwise known as "Ding Dong Ditch". Seems like something Scotland and Ireland could convince England to do if he was drunk enough.
Also, the "ice thing" in Canada is referring to the Québec Winter Festival, which starts in January and coincides with Shrove Tuesday. Mardi Gras celebrations are generally larger and more heralded in the French-speaking part of Canada, coinciding with the Catholic vs. Protestant divide.
--
"Tomorrow we will fast and abstain from meat. Today we feast. We thank you for the abundance of gifts you shower upon us. We thank you especially for one another..."
--
END
--
Notes: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed these very short and pretty lame stories! I learned a lot when writing this and if someone found this interesting/enjoyable well then that’s great! B.C. time it is still Shrove Tuesday (OK a half hour from midnight actually...), which means my original goal of posting this on Fat Tuesday still holds! I ate my pancakes and am totally good for the next forty days or so. Now, I'm going to bed. Thanks again!