1st Comes Love, Then Comes Marriage

As we revel in our yearly celebration of swapping 29 years of wedded spit I thought an open letter to my man might put things into perspective for all those newlyweds.

Dearest Big,

As I reminisce on our wedding day I thought back to all the little mishaps that could have marred our picture perfect day.

The evening before, we caravanned with the wedding party to my childhood church like lemmings for the rehearsal but wait, who was missing from our ragged crew? Why only the bridesmaid who lived three blocks away, she was out shopping for the perfect earrings. Are you f*cking kidding me? Either pack up you crap or I’m taking your dress and bouncing, it’s my day b*tch and I’m feeling a tiny bit high strung. With pastel blue fluff under my arm I bolted, squeezed the ring bearers mom into the frock as a backup. You negotiated with the little scene stealer to arrive on set with fake smile and good manners.

The service was beautiful, sun shining through stained glass windows, making those of us that had orange mimosas with breakfast a tad bit woozy. Hurry, hurry, hurry I willed the Jamaican pastor before I pass out. I jammed your ring on the wrong hand hoping to starve off fainting resulting in your finger swelling to 5 times its original size. Stellar pictures of you trying to wrench that little slave band off and break for freedom.

For those who don’t know, New Jersey is the east coast equivalent of Seattle, raining more days than not. It poured buckets the day before and the day after but our special day was clear and sunny. Perfect for taking a few pictures at the park. And with all bad weather residents, it was overflowing with people enjoying the 15 minutes of available sunshine. And who do we see casually tossing a Frisbee? Why our friend Fred, whose invitation was returned address unknown. Quick run home and change and join our little party, what’s one more.

With a little time to kill before the reception we opted to hoist a few drinks at the place of our first blind date, the Rock Bottom Inn. A hole in the wall bar was perhaps not the best place to wear white, but who really thought we’d pass for virgins. Ahem, I mean what a horrible place to take young innocents.

But the Pièce de résistance? Two days before the wedding the caterer died from a heart attack. How awful, but the entire kitchen and wait staff were weeping big gulping sobs the entire time they served. Instead of people congratulating us, they spent making sympathetic clucking noises. Here is one of your favorite meals my darling.

Hungarian Chicken
4 chicken breasts
4 tablespoons butter
1 small onion chopped
1 clove garlic minced
1 rib celery chopped
½ bay leaf
2 sprigs parsley chopped
½ teaspoon thyme
2 tablespoons paprika
2 tablespoons tomato paste
2 tablespoons flour
2 cups chicken broth
Salt and pepper to taste
½ cup sour cream

In large skillet brown chicken breasts in half the butter, and set aside. Melt remaining butter in the same skillet and sauté onion, garlic, celery, bay leaf, parsley, thyme and paprika until onion is wilted. Stir in tomato paste and flour, pour in broth and stir rapidly with wire whisk. Return chicken to the skillet and simmer over low heat for 20 minute. Stir in sour cream and heat throughout without boiling. Serve over hot egg noodles.

But my darling David, there a thousands of ways you’ve shown me you’re the man for me.

Letting everyone know how proud you are of how strong and accomplished I am, but letting me feel safe and protected by you always.

Stopping for little old ladies to change flat tires on the side of the road.

Pumping gas for me when I was pregnant since you knew it made me feel sick.

Holding my hand when I came home from the hospital when my mom was dying while I ate cold bowls of cereal before collapsing in bed.

You make me want to be a better person, you make me who I am, you make me whole. You are my love and my life, always.
Dawn