We are quickly approaching the six-week vigil Christians call Lent. March 5 is Ash Wednesday. I fully appreciate this is a solemn and holy season, a time of penance and atonement. So, of course, I would never make light of Lent, but if, as the Bible says, we are made in God’s image, He surely has a sense of humor and will forgive me for going a bit astray here.
In case you were wondering, the English word “Lent” originated from the old German “lencten,” an ancient term for spring. Its roots come from a noun “length,” not the verb “to lend.” It denotes the lengthening of days as the earth moves to the Spring Equinox.
Unfortunately, the second definition is the one I mistakenly applied as a Catholic school second grader. I erroneously assumed it was called Lent because God had loaned His son to mankind. Therefore, my developing brain simply could not wrap itself around the fact that when Jesus came to save the world, people rejected Him.
Like almost all children, I was not only given to huge misconceptions, I was ever so magnanimous. I big-heartedly forgave the Jewish people who demanded Jesus’s execution because if he could, I could. In my teen years, a glorious time when I knew absolutely everything, I was more judgmental.
I was sure I would never have participated in the horrific act of putting Jesus to death. I even went so far as to wish God had waited 2,000 years and sent His son to Sherwood instead of Nazareth, because we would have acted appropriately. After what’s been happening in our country lately, I’m not all that sure anymore.
Perhaps I found the 40 days of Lent difficult in my formative years because the nuns preached that we must sacrifice during Lent; interpreted as “do without something.” I always chose candy because it wasn’t that hard. Candy was a treat, we didn’t get it that often, and I was fussy. I ate only Snickers and peanut M&Ms, which meant I was giving up two things. I suppose I should have felt guilty instead of proud of myself, but there were so many things to feel guilty about that I made up for it easily.
A related sacrifice of living through Lent when I was growing up was the meal menus. It was bad enough that Catholics couldn’t eat meat on Friday, but during Lent the ban on meat in our household extended to Wednesdays. Since there were no Walleye Wednesdays or Friday Fish Frys in our dairy cow-centered world, we had two choices: tuna fish or salmon.
Mom made an edible tuna casserole. I politely ate a small helping so I could get to the good stuff: creamy cottage cheese, buttery baked potato, home-canned stewed tomatoes. Salmon casserole? Yuk. Just the smell of it when Mom opened the can turned my stomach. Then watching her pick out the bones before mixing the salmon with the other ingredients was disgusting. The worst part was the smell of it baking in the oven. The repercussions were deep and have lasted a lifetime. I have never bought a can of salmon, and I never will.
Fresh salmon? That’s a totally different kettle of fish. I am mad at myself that it took me over 50 years to discover grilled salmon. That happened in 1999 when Jon and I took an 11-week road trip to Alaska in a slide-in camper. We were on a small excursion boat out of Seward to see the glacier calve. Dinner was included in the ticket price, which was nice until I learned from the smell that the entrée was salmon. The waves were fierce, so I can’t totally blame it on the salmon, but it was the only time in my life I got seasick.
Someone had told Jon that ginger warded off seasickness so he had brought along a box of ginger cookies. I passed; I hate ginger cookies almost as much as salmon. By the time dinner was served, I was too queasy to eat. Jon had eaten half the cookies and felt fine. However, he shared my distaste for salmon, skipped it and ate both his and my side dishes.
The server felt sorry for me and wrapped the fish in a to-go box. I felt so much better when we got back to the camper that I was hungry. In desperation, I reheated the salmon. That’s when I discovered that grilled fresh salmon can be a downright delicious delicacy, even reheated in a microwave.
Oh, dear. Old customs are calling. I feel compelled to sacrifice something during Lent. Observing meatless Wednesdays and Fridays will not qualify because I love seafood. What to do? I better think of something appropriate soon or I’ll have to give up candy.
Kathleen Marsh is a lifelong educator, writer and community advocate. She has published eight books, four on the history of Townsend, where she and husband Jon are happily retired on the beautiful Townsend Flowage.
