Shrove Tuesday pancake supper has been a pre-Lenten tradition in my family for as long as I can remember. It’s one of those traditions that feels stitched into my childhood, so familiar, so steady, that I can almost smell it when I think about it.

Back then, Shrove Tuesday wasn’t something we explained much. We didn’t talk about it in big theological terms. We simply knew it was pancake night, and that it mattered.

I remember the routine clearly: we’d pick my dad up from work and head straight out for dinner. The church basement was nothing fancy, but it didn’t need to be. It was warm, busy, and full of families just like ours. We’d line up for pancakes and sausage, trays clattering, syrup bottles being passed from table to table, and the sound of laughter filling the room.

There was something comforting about the predictability of it all. The same meal. The same excitement. The same feeling of being together, right on the edge of Lent.

As a child, I loved the food, of course, but more than that, I loved the sense of belonging. Shrove Tuesday was one of those small yearly markers that made time feel meaningful. It reminded me that the seasons of the year weren’t just weather changes, they were something deeper. Something shared.

As the years passed, that pancake supper became one of my favorite family dinners out. Even as life changed, new jobs, new schedules, new responsibilities, Shrove Tuesday always seemed to show up like a gentle reminder: Pause. Gather. Celebrate. Prepare.

And now, I’m in a new season of life. The little ones in the line are no longer my siblings and me. Now they’re my grandchildren and we’re making our own pancake suppers here at home, together.

There is something incredibly moving about watching traditions stretch across generations. Things that once felt ordinary start to feel almost sacred. You realize that the magic was never just in the pancakes. It was in the gathering. It was in the ritual. It was in the way one simple night could hold so much love.

In many families, Shrove Tuesday celebrations also include King Cake, especially in places where Mardi Gras traditions are strong. The classic King Cake comes with a tiny plastic baby hidden inside, and whoever finds it is said to have good luck, or sometimes the responsibility of bringing the next cake.

This year, we decided to do something a little different. Instead of the tiny plastic baby, my grandchildren and I hid one of our favorite fèves in the cake.

A fève is a small token tucked inside a King Cake. Traditionally, fèves were little beans, fève is French for “bean.” Over time, they became tiny charms, figurines, or keepsakes. In some places, people collect them year after year. They can be whimsical, beautiful, meaningful, or simply fun.

But no matter what they look like, the idea is the same: a hidden surprise inside something sweet, waiting to be discovered.

My grandchildren were completely enchanted by the idea, the excitement of who gets the feve.

There’s something about a hidden treasure in a cake that makes children light up in the best way. They took their task very seriously, carefully choosing which fève to use. We talked about the tradition, how long it has existed, and how people in different places celebrate this season in different ways.

And then came the moment of anticipation, the slicing, the serving, and the watchful eyes as everyone took their first bites.

Would someone find it?

Who would it be?

There was laughter, dramatic chewing, and plenty of “Wait! I think I got it!” moments.

In the end, it wasn’t the token itself that mattered. It was the delight around the table. It was the shared excitement. It was the way a tiny hidden object could create a memory that will last far longer than the cake.

Shrove Tuesday is often described as the day before Ash Wednesday, the last day before Lent begins. Traditionally, it was a time to use up rich foods like butter, eggs, sugar, and milk before entering a season of fasting and simplicity. Pancakes were a practical way to do that.

But I think the deeper meaning goes beyond the ingredients.

Shrove Tuesday is a reminder that life has seasons.

It’s a chance to feast before we fast. To celebrate before we reflect. To gather before we enter a quieter time.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling. 

The 1968 Winter Olympics were a defining moment for my brothers and me. At fourteen, twelve, and nine years old, we were already seasoned skiers, and that winter we were utterly transfixed by the downhill events. In particular, we were glued to Jean-Claude Killy. Watching him race was electric, his confidence, precision, and dominance captured our imaginations instantly. From that moment on, we were devoted fans.

After the Olympics, Killy seemed to be everywhere. He was featured in ski magazines for months, even years, afterward, and we read every article we could find. Those glossy pages weren’t just stories about an athlete; they were windows into a world we wanted to belong to. Skiing was no longer just something we did, it became part of our identity.

1968 was also the first year we became truly aware of ski equipment brands and labels. Skiing was entering a new era, and we felt it. My older brother received Jean-Claude Killy’s signature Head skis for his birthday, and he treated them with reverence. He waxed them carefully, stored them properly, and skied them with pride. Those skis represented something bigger than gear; they were a tangible connection to excellence.

Our own skiing beginnings were far humbler. Our starter equipment came straight from my mother. At five years old, I skied in her leather boots, wool ski pants, and on her wooden skis. At the time, it never occurred to me to feel embarrassed. That was simply what we had, and it was enough. As we grew older and more skilled, our equipment evolved too, becoming more modern and state-of-the-art. I still remember how much I loved my red, white, and blue K2 skis, bold, patriotic, and full of promise.

We were always well dressed for the cold. Warm parkas and thick sweaters were essential, and Gerry down coats were our favorites. They were practical, but also a status symbol of sorts on the slopes. Remarkably, I still have my rainbow-striped Gerry jacket. It’s a little worn now, but it holds decades of memories in its seams.

Skiing in Wyoming had a distinctly different feel from skiing in Colorado. On trips to Steamboat, I was fascinated by the local girl skiers. They had a style all their own: braided hair, dangling earrings, and jeans instead of traditional ski pants. It was effortlessly cool and a little rebellious. I adopted that hippie-girl look as my own, grateful that my parents allowed me to get my ears pierced for my twelfth birthday. Everyone seemed to give me earrings that year, my favorites were a pair of love knot posts and a pair of dangly daisies.

Our ski trips with my father were special in their own quiet way. He was content spending time in the warming hut, sipping something hot and chatting with other parents while we tore up the mountain. Knowing he was there, waiting, watching, warming up, gave us a sense of freedom and security all at once.

One spring ski trip stands out vividly in my memory. My older brother decided to lead my younger brother and me on what he promised would be a “shortcut” down the mountain. As we veered off the familiar trail, I ignored the avalanche warning signs posted along the way. The snow was heavy and wet from the spring thaw, and as we descended, the terrain became increasingly treacherous.

Near the bottom of the slope, we encountered a creek with visible, running water. We had to sidestep carefully across a rocky creek bed, our skis slipping and sticking as mud and slush coated our boots, pants, and gear. We were sweating, tired, and questioning our brother’s definition of a shortcut. After a long stretch of walking, we finally emerged behind our hotel, only to realize we still had a considerable distance to walk to reach the ski lodge and meet our dad. It was anything but a shortcut, but it became one of those stories that lives on, retold with laughter and disbelief.

Today, I still enjoy watching Olympic skiing, though the sport has changed dramatically over the years. The equipment is faster and the courses more extreme. Whenever I watch the Olympics, I’m reminded of my own early accomplishments, small in the world of elite competition, but enormous to a child learning to ski.

I can still feel the pride of riding the rope tow all the way to the top of the bunny hill, gripping tight, trying not to fall, and feeling like I had conquered something serious just by making it to the top without losing my balance.

And I remember jumping from a small mogul on Dreadnaught, the toughest run at our local ski area. That jump wasn’t anything like what the Olympic skiers do now, but to me, it was daring. It was thrilling. It was proof that I belonged on the mountain.

Watching the best skiers in the world still brings me right back to the beginning: cold air, fast turns, brave little risks, and the kind of joy that only comes from flying downhill under your own power.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling. 

It’s been a challenging week weather-wise, ice everywhere. On my walk with my dog this afternoon, we moved carefully around the block, navigating narrow paths where sidewalks have been shoveled just wide enough for one person. I paused for a neighbor who stepped aside, shaking his head at the ice and saying spring can’t come fast enough.

And yet, as difficult as this season has been, I’m not ready for spring. I haven’t had my fill of winter’s coziness. I’m still drawn to warm layers and soft slippers, to fires in the hearth and meals that simmer slowly and “stick to our bones.” Winter continues to offer an invitation to rest, to simplify, to turn inward.

Imbolc arrives at this exact threshold. Falling midway between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox, Imbolc marks a subtle but powerful shift in the year. The light is growing stronger now, even if the cold persists. Beneath frozen soil, seeds are stirring. The deep grip of winter has not released us, but it has begun to loosen.

This year, Imbolc is illuminated by the full Snow Moon, amplifying its energy and meaning. The full moon brings clarity, it shines light on what is ready to be released and reveals the new beginnings quietly forming within us. At Imbolc, we are not asked to leap forward, but to prepare. To tend the space where something new will eventually grow.

Without consciously planning it, I have been engaging in Imbolc rituals all weekend. I’ve been lighting candles first thing in the morning, bringing warmth and light into my home. I baked bread this afternoon to go with the hearty soup that bubbled on the stove. I cleaned, rearranged, and cleared small corners of my space, letting go of what felt heavy or unnecessary. These acts were humble and practical, yet deeply symbolic: tending the hearth, preparing the body and home, making room.

I’m still firmly in the cozy phase of the season. My hands are busy knitting hats and scarves, stitch by stitch, a slow and meditative rhythm that feels like its own kind of prayer. I drink hot tea throughout the day and spend evenings watching movies that ask nothing of me but presence. These, too, are rituals, simple, repetitive, comforting.

Even my table reflects this lingering devotion to winter. My Portmeirion dinner plates still bear the holly and the ivy, a small but deliberate choice. I’m not ready to switch to the Botanic Garden plates just yet. Those will wait until March, when the earth itself is further along in its turning. For now, I honor the season I am still in.

The Snow Moon carries its influence throughout the entire month. Its energy encourages gentle preparation; welcoming what is new with intention while releasing what slows us down or no longer serves our lives. This is not a dramatic purge, but a mindful clearing. A ritual of readiness.

And still, the Snow Moon reminds us that winter is not yet complete. There is wisdom in honoring the season we are still in. There is beauty in rest, in quiet, in allowing things to unfold slowly. Imbolc does not demand that we rush toward spring; it simply asks us to notice the light returning and to tend the flame within.

Beneath the snow and ice, something is beginning. And for now, it is enough to “stay the course” and wait till the end of the month to prepare the way for spring.

Katherine Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.