Tuesday a week ago was Fastnacht Day. Listening to talk radio on the 17th of February was a reminder that what we take for granted as universal knowledge is, in reality, regional customs and tradition. The talking heads on the radio revealed their roots with their knowledge or ignorance of Fastnacht Day.
Fastnacht Day is an annual Pennsylvania Dutch celebration that falls on Shrove Tuesday, the day before Ash Wednesday. The word translates to “Fast Night” in English.
The tradition is to eat the very best foods, which are part of the German culture, before the Lenten fast.
Even the spell-check on my computer challenged the validity of the word, “fastnacht.”
That software was probably written by a bright young Ivy League graduate rather than a dumb Pennsylvania Dutchman like me. Well I've got news for all the Whiz-kids out there, Fastnachts with all their memories are alive and well. Let me explain:
As a boy growing up in Philadelphia, money was tight but somehow my parents managed to send a small monthly check to my widowed grand mother Schaeffer. Nanna, as we affectionately called her, still lived in Pottsville where my parents and I had lived before moving to the big city. Mom and dad never put restrictions on how Nanna could
spend the stipend that supplemented her small widow's pension. As a kid with a major league appetite, I'm glad they didn't.
Just like clockwork, early on the morning of Fastnacht Day, a special delivery truck would stop in front of our West Philadelphia row-home. The driver rarely had time to ring the bell before someone eagerly greeted him at the door. There was always someone in the family on alert for the delivery.
After signing for the package, we carried it to the kitchen table to be opened with anticipated pleasure by everyone. Inside the package were several dozen fastnachts with a note included from Nanna Schaeffer, wishing us a Happy Fastnacht Day along with the latest family news from Pottsville. If memory serves me correct, the fastnachts were still slightly warm thanks to Nanna's special effort at packaging. Nanna's fastnachts were of the yeast variety, slightly crisp on the outside and not as sweet as standard donuts. She fried the fastnachts in lard on her anthracite fired cook stove. That's the same stove that toasted my back when we ate Sunday dinner in her kitchen during our occasional visit back to Pottsville via the Reading Railroad. Maybe it's nostalgia but I remember her fastnachts as the best donuts in the whole wide world.
Even a self centered preteen intuitively knew the financial sacrifice made by a grandmother when the fresh warm fastnachs were delivered on Shrove Tuesday by special messenger. My mother trained us right so by Wednesday I was gently reminded that a thank-you letter to Nanna was in order, the sooner the better.
Those were the days when thank you letters, sent U.S. Mail complete with a three cent first class postage stamp, were considered good manners..... the manners I learned immediately. However, it took half a life time to become a grand parent and appreciate how much it meant to Nanna to do something special for her grandchildren. We get too
soon old and too late smart.
After listening to the morning radio show last Tuesday I decided to treat my better half and me to a fastnacht and coffee at a local upscale breakfast cafe. We could have driven half way across the county to stand, on a cold day, in a long line winding toward a church kitchen where the ladies auxiliary was selling raised fastnachts like Nanna used to make. Instead I yielded to the temptation of proximity for the neighborhood cafe.
Arriving at the cafe we were offered a wide variety of typical donuts to enjoy with the gourmet coffee. The experience was pleasant but half way home I finally said what Helen was already thinking, “That was nice but the donuts weren't as good as Nanna's fastnnachts.”
Be assured, next year I will don my long johns, put on my hunting boots, and make a long drive cross county. Standing in line with other smart people will be a small price to pay for real fastnachts.