It’s Pancake Day and I’m flipping out.
Why? Because so many of my countrymen – my seemingly normal, well-meaning, rational peers – are celebrating this auspicious occasion, this day of days, all wrong.
How could anyone possibly get a day dedicated to simple fried batter wrong?
I have no idea, to be honest, and yet it seems millions are turning this day into a total flop.
And this is how.
Instagram feeds are clogged with thick, unsightly American pancakes.
Facebook feeds brag of fancy French crepes.
Twitter is a messy, batter-spattered nest of stacks.
None of these are pancakes fit for today.
None of these pancakes are really pancakes.
Pancake Day is about British pancakes.
British pancakes, like your mum makes.
Pancakes that even you can make because they have just six, very simple, ingredients: flour, eggs, and milk for the mix, butter to fry and lemon and sugar on top.
Traditional pancakes that are straight forward and honest and delicious, and don’t need any of your crass Atlantic thickness, that don’t need to be piled up and up and up in a Trump Tower of obscenity, pancake on bacon on syrup on pancake.
Look, I’ve got nothing against your Crepe Suzette or your ostentatious American stacks any other time.
But it’s Pancake Day. You’ve got 364 other days to make pancakes thicker than draft excluders.
You’ve got all the time in the world to pipe fancy whipped cream, and place assorted berries, and squirt chocolate and strawberry sauce on to a stack of fried batter for the ‘perfect’ picture.
But Pancake Day is about British pancakes.
Anything else is an abomination.
Plus, they obviously taste best.