Wedding Traditions

Wedding Traditions: Occasionally I see blurbs about the origin of wedding traditions such as wedding rings, bridal bouquets, and crossing the threshold. But why in blazes do we need a white pile of architecturally correct complex carbohydrates?

I’m a pretty decisive person. I wanted the pretty little gift-box cake with the perfect fondant corners and marzipan bows. I knew what colors, shape, size, and decorations were going on my cake within 10 minutes of looking at a Wilton magazine.

Over the course of the year, my cake has evolved into the cake. The cake that works for everyone.
Everyone in my life was opposed to the precious fondant creation I had picked out. The friends, the baker, the fiancé. We found out at an early summer wedding that fondant tastes awful. Ok, so scratch that.

I found the perfect baker. A no-nonsense grandmother who bakes cakes for fun on the weekends. The perfect baker who bakes what she feels like baking. She only bakes the cakes that she knows won’t fall or fall apart – and mine was not one of them. She bakes what she likes to bake, but she bakes it for one dollar per slice. I can work with that. For one dollar per person, we’ll do it her way! Butter cream and Duncan Hines it is.

We met for dinner and worked together to come up with a simple, functional, tasty cake that was within a number of parameters. Did you see that, I said “cake” and “parameters” in the same sentence. Maybe I’m getting just a little wedding on the brain.

I decided it was time to leave the cake, and the cake decorations in the hands of my very competent baker and florist. They’re good at what they do, and there’s no sense micromanaging a pile of frosting that will only exist in pictures when i’m 64.

This weekend, MiniMartha and I went down to decorate for her friend’s wedding. We jumped right in to the usual pre-wedding decorating, arranging and improvising. Ninety minutes before the wedding, the cake was delivered. The cake was leaning. “Oh, no its fine!” The baker said as she ran out the door.

So 30 minutes later, we’re busy swaging, foofing, and tying bows. And of course, it happens.
Right in front of my friend’s eyes it happens. The precarious three tier mass of pretty carbohydrates just faints like a southern belle.

As soon as we could charge some nephews with the responsibility for not letting the bride look in the direction of the pile of sugar that was once cake, I had to fly out of the building – I was laughing so hard.

“Oh, my heart is breaking for her!” the sister of the bride wailed. I understand her pain. A week before, my heart would have fallen from my chest if it was my sister’s cake. But this is this week; and it wasn’t my sister’s cake, so I was laughing like a drunk in the parking lot.
Maybe we ought to stage a cake-smashing at my reception! Any volunteers?

On second thought – how bout we just break the cake over my head?