Recently, my husband and I
helped our friends drink a bottle of Shiraz and address invitations for their
August wedding. “Thirty-four days,” my harried friend reminded me. Like in so
many second marriages, the date is a decision made in committee, and nailing
down a venue in Wine Country with short notice is nerve wracking—pass the
bottle, please.
I
re-filled Linda’s wine glass, “It’s pretty good, once it breathes.” I said of
their first attempt at wine making.
“Like
organizing a wedding at the last minute. All I need to do is breathe.”
Or
medicate, I thought. David and I negotiated our August date while we
pre-honeymooned in Tuscany the May before—with twenty-three of my closest
relatives. We could pull it off in two months, couldn’t we? We pondered this
over white truffle ravioli in sage butter washed down with a lush Sangiovese
from the Montepulciano region. August 1st would work, although I’d
have preferred later in the month—we didn’t want to conflict with the July 31st
opening of the latest Harry Potter movie and we wanted to avoid the wind and
chill of fog. Summer in the shadow of Sonoma Mountain can be so iffy.
Back
at home we sipped Chianti and hand made one hundred seventy-five invitations.
(If you’ve kept your invitation, may I have it back? I never got one!) My
nephew, then newly graduated from the California Culinary Academy, and I tasted
brews at Lagunitas Brewing Company while we conferred about the menu— yes, he
could duplicate the ravioli in sage-truffle beurre blanc, and it would pair well with the apple notes of the
Pils—a Czeck style pilsner. But wouldn’t I rent a grill and let him barbeque
some beef?
“You know we don’t eat red
meat—tequila-lime shrimp skewers?” I negotiated.
“Only
if you make it Herradura tequila,” Chef replied.
One
hundred fifty RSVPs arrived. Wow! I didn’t know we had so many friends. The
problem was, on our sloping gopher field, where would we put them all?
“Deck
over the yard,” my problem solving near-husband said. “Dad and Den can do it;
give them the keg.”
Amid
the circus of construction and in-laws-to-be staying with us for the week
preceding the wedding—David’s revenge for the pre-honeymoon—it was hard to
tell that our day had come.
Tentacles
of fog arrived with the guests, most driving too fast on our unpaved lane and
churning dust all over my tables. The family was still slapping paint onto the
deck railings; Chef shambled in three hours late looking hung-over without the
tequila-marinated shrimp. My hairdresser plied me with wine and held me hostage
in the house, insisting that it was bad luck for anyone to see me in my
flounced, Victorian-inspired dress before the ceremony. I missed all the photos
with David’s family.
The
band, which included the Phoenix Theater’s Music Director, Gio Benedetti, on
bass and Petaluma guitarist, Alec Furhman, (check out his 80s cover band, Choppin’Broccoli) struck up the processional. My Man of Honor, leading
Chocolatte, our mortified Lab who carried the rings pinned to a heart-shaped
pillow tied around her neck, started the procession down the eucalyptus-chip
path toward the creek and the gazebo where our officiate waited. David was not
in sight.
As
I searched the sea of smiling faces for my betrothed, I noticed a billboard
that must have gone up during the night, looming over the treetops: Planning a wedding? Call 1-800-RUN LIKE
HELL. Had David seen that? I clutched my vows in my fist and considered trading
in my jeweled flip-flops for Nikes. But the music stopped and he stepped off
the stage to join me—my Bart Maverick in scruffy tennis shoes. I really wanted
him to wear that hot pair of snakeskin cowboy boots we saw at Jay Palm, but the
collarless shirt and wild west vest were as far as he would go.
The
setting was magical with Sonoma Mountain and Pam Bell’s magnificent flower
arrangements as backdrops. The Flamenco guitar was sensual food for our ears as
Chef’s grilled salmon (and ravioli) was for our tongues, and people are still
talking about that Harlequin wedding cake custom designed by Patisserie Angelica. No one twisted an ankle in a gopher
tunnel and no one missed the shrimp skewers. It may have
taken us a week to clean up the mess, but we had in-laws to help.
Next month, when David and I celebrate
our 6th anniversary, the party’s going to be with our dear friends
at their homegrown wedding (local
French gypsy band, Dgiin is playing!) But for that special toast to us—our
marriage and the blessings of our lives in Sonoma County—it’s not going to be
over dinner at Cucina Paradiso like last year. Instead we’ll celebrate the
first flush into our new septic tank—and I’m hoping that the sixth anniversary
gift isn’t toilet paper.
