TINA MARKOE KINSLOW/Courier-Post Barbara Meidt works on a pan of cinnamon buns as daughters Christiana, 24 (left) and Sharon, 21, prepare doughnuts.

Barbara Meidt is flabbergasted.

"What! You've never heard of Doughnut Day?" she says into the phone.

It's Tuesday and the Pennsauken woman is standing in her kitchen, potholders in her hand, an apron tied over her clothes. The house is filled with women chitchattering. The occasional feminine giggle and shriek rise above the din.

"Fastnacht Day? Shrove Tuesday? Mardi Gras?" she asks the caller. It's the day before Ash Wednesday, the start of Lent, she explains.

In the Meidt household (pronounced "might"), Fastnacht (also spelled Fasnacht) Day is the biggest celebration of the year, surpassing even Christmas and Thanksgiving.

For the last 25 years or so, Meidt has pulled out her German great-grandmother's recipe for sugar raised doughnuts and her German mother-in-law's recipe for what she calls snickerdoodles, spoon-dropped nutmeg-flavored doughnuts deep fried in oil.

Lately, the 49-year-old has added trays of cinnamon buns to the list, some with walnuts and raisins, some with pecans and raisins.

The scent of cooking oil wafts through the door to the sidewalk, where a line of cars is parked along the road. Ladies have arrived unannounced, loaded with bottles of soda, trays of sandwiches, chips, fruit salad and even shrimp.

They eat on Meidt's pink Depression-era glassware, which she inherited along with the recipe. Pink carnations and baby's breath decorate lace-draped tables. Women wedge into her dining room, kitchen and hall, elbow to elbow.

It started with just three or four members of her family: her great-grandmother, her mother, an aunt. Today, an estimated 40 women have floated in and out since 9 a.m. Some linger past 3 in the afternoon.

Fastnacht means "fast night" in German, the night before fasting begins.

"Today, we eat like crazy," says Meidt, who attends St. Stephen's Catholic Church across the street. By the end of the day, four dozen cinnamon buns, six dozen sugar-raised doughnuts and oodles of snickerdoodles are gone.

Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of Lent, observed since the early days of Christianity. Lent is traditionally a 40-day fast in imitation of Jesus Christ's fasting in the wilderness.

Lent also marks a period of preparation for baptism and a time of penance for sinners.

Before World War II, fasting in the Catholic church meant only one full meal a day was allowed and meat, fish, eggs and butter were forbidden. Today, only Ash Wednesday and Good Friday are kept as fast days. Some people "give up something" for Lent, such as candy or soda. Some give money to the poor, says Maria Haas, 49, of Pennsauken.

It's a pretty lenient thing, say the women, most of whom are Catholic. Meidt's 20-something daughters, Sharon and Christiana, hadn't thought of giving up anything for Lent. But already they are learning their mother's recipes, preparing for the day when they will take over the family tradition of Fastnacht Day.

While the lean days of Lent are fading away, the celebration of Fat Tuesday continues. Its religious overtones are still present, says Dianne Murray, 49, of Maple Shade. "Easter's coming."

On Ash Wednesday, Vi Stratton planned to eat a soup-and-bread meal at a local Lutheran church.

"It goes from all this to soup," Stratton says, pausing while collecting empty dishes from the tables. Lent, she explains, "is the somber season, waiting for re-birth."

Ash Wednesday "kind of feels like a very somber day," says Christiana Meidt, 24. In the kitchen, Barbara Meidt is hovering by the oven, where she is frying doughnuts in canola oil. Her grandmother used to use lard. "Man, it tasted good," she says.

So far, she has torn through 10 pounds of flour, 2 pounds of butter and lots of nuts and sugar. She hand kneads the dough, even though she has a KitchenAid mixer to handle the work. It's better that way, she says.

She sends baggies of doughnuts home with all the women. Her husband, David, gets a bag, too, for his lunch.

She turns the yeast doughnuts over after about 30 seconds. The snickerdoodles roll over by themselves, flipping to a deep brown. She shakes the balls in bags of cinnamon sugar. The yeast doughnuts are doused with granulated white sugar. It's the way her family did it.

They are sweet, airy and pillowy soft on the inside.

Noel Whelan, 42, of Pennsauken can't resist them.

"I've never had a Dunkin' Donut since I've had these things," she says, sighing. "Oh, God!"

There is an undercurrent of wistfulness here, too. When her family and friends are buzzing around the tables, Meidt can't help but think of Doughnut Day regulars who have died. Her mother died in 1990 and her little sister died in 1999 at age 37. In the midst of women, she feels their presence.

"If we didn't have our faith, we wouldn't be able to deal with these things," Meidt says, her eyes reddened.

Meidt spends most of her time in the kitchen, where the voices of happy women blur. She pauses briefly to munch half a sandwich and finish a glass of iced tea.

"I don't get to enjoy them," she says, "but I do this for them."