So I got married on Saturday, January 5th.
After we promised to love each other until the end of time, it only made sense to then strap on the feedbag at a fantastic spread provided by the best friends two lesbians could ever have, the toothsome Kirsten and her inexplicable husband, The Davey.
We met Kirsten and their daughters at family camp a couple of years ago and, as I’m sure everyone they meet does, have grown to love all of them almost more than is healthy. They have kids very close in age to Rhonda’s girls, they like to play games and drink things and dip things into other things and eat them, and they are delightful in every possible way.
So you can imagine our breathless incredulity when they heard that we were thinking of gettin’ hitched and the first thing they said was WE WANT TO DO THE FOOD.
Did I mention that The Davey is one of those people who cooks? Like, so well that he used to do it for a living?
There followed a certain amount of disorganized yammering at them by us, which they kindly interpreted and/or completely ignored. They occasionally asked us questions in the weeks leading up to the wedding, questions that began with, “Do you mind if we have some –” and which we always interrupted by shouting YES PLEASE SERVE ANYTHING YOU WOULD CARE TO MAKE, POUR A BAG OF PURINA CAT CHOW ON THE TABLE IF IT SUITS YOU, WE ARE NOT WORTHY. And so against all odds a delicious buffet was produced, for which neither I nor my lovely wife can take credit.
And which our boisterous guests stripped completely bare. It looked like rabid locusts had descended on the table and left only what they couldn’t grasp in their horrible hairy pincers.
Dear reader(s), it was lovely. There were nibbly things of many types and an enormous slab of smoked salmon that was hand-caught and smoked by yet another friend and church-member, Clay. It should be noted that I was so busy schmoozing, and obviously woozy from the fumes of matrimony, that I never even saw the salmon in person but have only now become acquainted with it via photographs. There were Cheesy Poufs, and those little quiches that are like a little savory mouthful of paradise, and also: WEENIE wraps and meatBALLS. Because, of course, it was a lesbian wedding. Ha. Of course. That. Yes.
And little cubes of cheese and crackery things and bread and all kinds of things. I ate, um, one weenie wrap and I think a Cheesy Pouf? Because I was busy. And dazed.
I have already described the cake, but I show it again here because it is so wonderful that it deserves another look. There was even a little tree-root sticking off to one side at the back, designed specifically to be cut and fed to one another by the newlyweds. This was a good thing because it looked complicated to slice otherwise.
We also had a chocolate fountain, because we are brilliant like that. Because Rhonda and I were fussing over the idea of having some chocolate-covered strawberries but they are so expensive and delicate and and and, and that of course was when Rhonda’s oldest piped up about how we should just have a chocolate fountain.
The reason why we wanted chocolate-covered strawberries at the reception was because way back on our first real “date,” The Lovely Rhonda brought a small cooler filled with chocolate-covered strawberries. (This is the same reason we have a Christmas ornament shaped like a chocolate-covered strawberry. It’s a really nice one too, not plastic or anything.)
Should you, gentle reader(s), ever have a wedding or gathering where children will be in attendance but will also be bored to death by all the dull conversation and lack of fun that grown-ups have when they get together, might I suggest a chocolate fountain? Because the children will happily destroy all surrounding landscape with dribbles of chocolate. They will gleefully race to and from the chocolate fountain table with precarious platefuls of pretzels, fruit and marshmallows fossilized in chocolate. They will decorate their clothing, shoes and hair with chocolate. They will practically dive into the chocolate and do the backstroke à la Augustus Gloop. And it will keep them fantastically busy, and afterward they will leave and you won’t have to deal with the aftermath of giving children unfettered access to sugar for two hours.
Seriously, that table was surrounded by children at all times, to the point that TLR had to elbow through them to dive for the last strawberry, twirl it through the dwindling chocolate curtain and present it to me, moments before the teeming mob of pirahna-tots dipped that fountain dry.
Best. Idea. Ever.
Once everyone had attacked the buffet for a while we served up glasses of sparkling cider (this is a church, after all, no alcohol unless it’s the sacramental wine) and jointly tried to express our gratitude and humility for all who had helped us, all who had showed up, all who were happy to see us reach this day. We tried to express this via an extremely inarticulate toast. What it lacked in polish it made up for in enthusiasm, which I am told can compensate for a great many things.
We drank the toast using champagne flutes given to me by my grandmother years ago, beautiful cut-crystal things with platinum rims. It was my way of including her in this happiest day of my life. I am happy to say that my other grandmother, still pretty spry for 87, was in attendance and welcomed Rhonda to the family.
I am a very lucky woman.
At the end of it all, when the last chocolate-smeared parent was herding the final protesting child out to the car, we turned to find our friends who had slaved in the kitchen all day, and half the day before that, busily cleaning and putting things away. Other church friends were there to stack chairs and tidy things up.
We tried to help but they chased us off.
We have the best friends imaginable.