A/N: I promised a ridiculous idea was in the hopper. This is not that ridiculous idea. This is an entirely different ridiculous idea. Lately I seem to want to write in step with the liturgical calendar; Ridiculous Idea #1 ran into some...ridiculousness (long story), so it's still cooking, but only on the back burner.
This takes place in that sweet-spot of Series 3, after "When a Child is Born" but before they started beating us over the head with poor decision-making and maudlin flashbacks. Rating may evolve, depending on what I give up for Lent. ;)
"I thought the point of Pancake Day was to use up existing stores before they spoilt."
Startled by the smoky voice of the Assumpta Fitzgerald, Father Clifford nearly dropped the carton of brown eggs. He glanced at the door of Hendley's; the bells were still there. Had he been so lost in thought that he hadn't heard her come in?
"Sometimes the theory doesn't quite cover the realities of the practise," he sputtered.
"Isn't that the truth," Assumpta retorted.
Peter swallowed. He could feel the shopkeeper's disapproving eyes alight on them.
"Big crowd expected at the supper tonight?" asked Assumpta.
"At least as good as last year's turnout."
"Feeding them well, I trust."
"If all goes well, by the time of the New Orleans Mardi Gras at Fitzgerald's, they'll practically roll down the hill to you."
"'They,' then? Won't we see you?"
Now Kathleen audibly cleared her throat. The priest tried to beam an apology with his eyes. "Let's see how long the dishes take me," he said.
"Suit yourself," said Assumpta. "Come by if you get a chance. Whatever you're giving up for Lent, I'm sure we'll have a few last morsels of it."
If you only knew, he thought.
Kathleen made a sound somewhere between a sob and a dry heave. Assumpta turned to face a display of food dye, and Peter shamefacedly carried his order to the checkout.
"Indefensible, to make a mockery of Shrove Tuesday," Kathleen grumbled, stabbing the price into the keypad with such intensity, Peter worried for the safety of her fingers.
"Pancakes are a storied tradition," Peter began.
Kathleen cut him off. "I meant that business," she hissed, pointing across the street. "Gluttony, debauchery...gumbo!"
Peter glanced back at Assumpta, who was hiding her smirk behind a delicate white hand. He felt the less-obedient side of his own mouth ticking upward in response.
"Thanks, Kathleen."
"See you at supper, Father."
The pickings for volunteer cooks had been slim as ever. Kathleen and her altar guild comrades all pleaded exhaustion - a funny thing, Peter thought, in the face of forty days' enforced plainness. Liam and Donal had offered their services - for a fee. Obvious budget constraints aside, Peter still felt uncomfortable giving the boys access to cooking supplies so soon after the "sweating statues" debacle. Assumpta would no sooner darken the door of St. Joseph's than abandon her own festivity preparations.
In the end, only the stalwart Niamh Egan had put in for cooking duty, with an option on dishwashing if there was time before Ambrose had to hand off Kieran before his night beat. Mindful of the limitations to Niamh's culinary skills, Peter tried to have all the batter ready before she arrived.
"Hallelujah," she cheered as she poured a pleasantly-formed circle into the pan.
"That's right," he returned. "Get it out of your system now, whilst you still can."
Eventually between their two pans, they had amassed a decent skyline of stacked cakes, surprisingly few of which they'd burnt. Opening the window between the church kitchen and the social hall, they heard the first arrivals trickling in to start on Phase One of what was sure to be the Fattest Tuesday on record.
Down the hill, gumbo and jambalaya simmered on the stovetop, king cake baked below, and beignets sizzled in the fryer.
Stepping away from the kitchen, the landlady arranged a metallic half-mask on the bar above each stool, and a large bowl of matching beaded necklaces on a table near the entrance.
"Where on Earth did you get this?" cried Brendan Kearney when she handed him the mood music for the evening.
"It's 1998, Brendan. Get online and you can order zydeco and funeral jazz from anywhere. Help me with these tablecloths, will you?"
"You really think you'll see this much turnout on a Tuesday?" the schoolteacher asked, glancing around the place.
Assumpta glared at him. "If they want to tuck into pancakes served up by the worst two chefs in town, sure they'll want to come down here after and get the taste out of their mouths."
The kitchen timer beckoned her away just as Padraig O'Kelly arrived. He wasted no time donning a ridiculous mask and two strands of gold beads.
"You're early," Brendan said.
"Any drink special tonight?" Padraig asked as Assumpta pushed back through the kitchen door, a heaving tray in her hands.
"Hurricanes."
"Hope you offer an insulin chaser," Brendan quipped.
Padraig ignored him. "Love one."
Assumpta rolled her eyes. "In an hour, when we open."
Brendan smirked, ready to push another button. "Had any thought to what you'll give up for Lent, Assumpta?"
She set the tray of glasses on the bar, a mild shockwave resonating through them. "Oh, yeah," she said, eyes narrowing.
Padraig took the bait: "Well?"
She gave a half-nod in the general direction of St. Joseph's. "Self-denial." She retreated to the kitchen for a punch bowl.
"Walked right into that one, didn't we?" Brendan muttered. Padraig shrugged.
As it turned out, serving duties tapered off rapidly as the second wave of parishioners took their seats at the folding tables. Niamh joined Ambrose and Kieran at their table for a quick pancake before cleanup, and Peter allowed himself a moment to take in the warmth of the festivities, the smell of the meal he and his sidekick had managed not to ruin. He especially enjoyed watching the children attack their pancakes, with varying degrees of efficiency.
He rolled up his sleeves and pulled his apron on for a second round, unplugging the beaters and dismantling them for a good soak. The batter clung to them with mad tenacity, and he doubted the quarter-full bottle of Fairy would manage it all. At least the disposable plates and cups could be binned, though the karmic debt of the waste weighed heavy on his conscience.
So many things did, lately.
He knew rationally that the filthy dreams were well beyond his control. He could eat blander food, get better sleep, and stop drinking entirely, but it wouldn't even guarantee a change in their frequency or intensity. But spiritually, they were beginning to take their toll, to bleed into his waking imagination. To say nothing of his behaviour: ascetic cold showers had given way to hot ones in which he stayed inappropriately long, coping with his lust in a far less defensible way...
It was unacceptable. He could think of only one way out.
It had originally been Father Mac's suggestion during a particularly anguished confession. Peter really, really didn't want to do it. It would only highlight a problem best kept secret, only signal to others the struggle he had thus far kept as far from daylight and oxygen as he possibly could. But he could think of no other way to clear his head without abandoning his duties. It would be less disruptive than going on retreat, less of a landmine than confiding in anyone else...
Niamh's giddy singsong interrupted his train of thought now:
"Think the whole village went up a waist size tonight," she announced, tying the other apron loose around her full postpartum belly. "I think I'll do refined sugar as my sacrifice this year."
"That's quite ambitious," Peter said absently, hoping the drain could digest the last oily clumps of batter better than his own body was doing.
"What about you?" she asked idly. He paused and looked up from the suds in the sink.
She gave her familiar don't-be-stupid look. "What're you giving up for Lent, Father?"
He snapped on his Marigolds with an air of austerity. "I'm giving up Fitzgerald's."
Niamh inhaled sharply.