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Photography courtesy of Suzy Gorman
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Photography courtesy of Suzy Gorman
If wedding planning is a marathon, the big day itself is the final stretch, with all the perspiration and tears that entails. Our dining editor, George Mahe, and his wife, Suzi, shared this letter George wrote to a friend who was unable to attend their wedding—George’s first-person chronicle of the day’s events, which give new meaning to the phrase “Don’t sweat it.”
Photography courtesy of Suzy Gorman
September 18, 2010: The wedding Mass in St. Clement of Rome’s 30-seat adoration chapel was the first of its kind. There had been no wedding held there since it had been blessed three years before, and it was intimate, to say the least—had I taken but one step sideways, I would have stepped firmly onto my mother’s sensible shoes. Photographer Suzy Gorman snapping off 35-mm pics (and the sound of that old-time motor drive) was distracting yet reassuring, the way old-school techniques often are.
After the ceremony, the guests were informed, “We are now going out into the country for dinner,” and 40-plus people blindly and willingly boarded a rock star–size bus.
It wasn’t until we reached full capacity that the bus’s air conditioner shut down, no small occurrence on an 87-degree day. I spent the next 10 minutes up front with the driver, on her cellphone, troubleshooting with the mechanic at the bus company—bathed in sweat, mind you, along with everyone else. They all appeared trapped, as the bus had windows that were, torturously, fixed in place. The guests had plenty of alcohol, but no air. I will never forget the expressions on our relatives’ faces as I sheepishly looked back—glazed looks, wide-eyed looks, WTF looks, “Do something” looks. I felt like I was the ringleader on a bus to hell. Those faces will forever be etched into my brain.
About 10 seconds before we would’ve made the decision to return to the church, the AC miraculously kicked back on. Ahhh, yes…cool, de-humidified salvation! Unfortunately, my body reacted by perspiring—incessantly, unmercifully, embarrassingly—the entire evening. (At one point, out of the corner of my eye, as I noticed my wife of four hours sizing up her soggy new husband, I recalled how a friend of hers had admonished her husband in similar circumstances: “Tim…can you just stop sweating?!”)
We arrived at Winslow’s Farm in Defiance 15 minutes later than initially planned. The plan was to have a full complement of staffers—bartenders, servers, and two flamenco guitarists—serving up beverages, appetizers, and merriment in the farm’s organic growing field. But alas, when the bus pulled up, I saw a lone bartender, cobbling together a makeshift bar. Something was clearly wrong. My heart sank. I didn’t think it was possible, but I was now perspiring even more, my shirt clearly, visibly—and perhaps permanently—stuck to my body.
So I proceeded to lead a group of similarly perspiration-covered guests to a party that did not exist. As calmly as I could, I asked the bartender, “Where the f—k is everybody?” He replied in a voice reminiscent of Colin Firth’s, “Th–, th–, they will be right down,” then attempted—unsuccessfully—to place a “Help me now!” call from a cellphone blinking “No Service.” I bounded up the hill, located the event coordinator, and informed her that there were 50 people in a field with no food and one busy-as-hell bartender. She looked me dead in the eye and said, “You’re an hour early. We expected you at 5 o’clock, not 4.”
Photography courtesy of Suzy Gorman
My heart was now in my throat. She assured me the staff had just arrived. The musicians? “We were just tuning up,” they quipped, unaware they were a no-show for a 4 o’clock Act One. Within about 60 seconds, the farm’s John Deere four-wheeler became a clown car, overloaded with black-and-white–clad staffers and two guys hanging one-handed off the back, clinging to Sitka spruce guitars.Thankfully, the ensemble produced music, food, and drinks in record time. But it was still a bit toasty…87 in the city seemed like 187 in that field.
Photo by George Mahe
Forty minutes later, I led what I perceived to be a fake-smiling wedding party up the hill for dinner in the “shed,” a large, sturdy but leaning outbuilding. (Overheard: “We’re going to have dinner in there?”) And then, as the rickety wooden door was rolled open, the guests caught sight of the dinner table, straight as a military laser, embellished with family heirloom china, and set for 50 people. I heard gasps. Mouths were agape. Cameras were pulled from pockets and purses. In an instant, those fake smiles became genuine.
The table was draped in white, with a beige runner. For this rustic dinner, oval river rocks had been fashioned into place cards, guests’ names applied in black enamel. Antique oil lamps flickered. This was Act Two, and this time, the musicians were in the right place, in tune, and perfectly amplified. The fact that a century-old farm building could be so transformed escaped no one. The setting was simply spectacular—magical. All available cameras were now in use, just like the day Mark McGwire teed off on #70. The guests—Suzi and myself included—could not believe how perfect it was. Suzi got goose bumps. A tear came to my eye. Our guests saw what we had envisioned. Finally…everyone understood.
Photo by George Mahe
Photography courtesy of Suzy Gorman
The first course, a chilled cantaloupe soup spiked with jalapeño, was already in place. Guests found their seats and the family-style meal began, followed by toasts, including one in French by a nephew who’d flown in from Paris. Chef Cary McDowell, holding court over a ragtag assortment of wood-fired farm grills, received kudos immediately and often, largely because there were no lulls: The six courses followed one another seamlessly, paired with red and white wines, alongside countless bottles of Lucien Albrecht Crémant d’Alsace brut rosé. San Pellegrino Aranciata and Limonata found a new audience with the younger guests, although many were content with Mexican Coke, swigging it straight from the bottle.
No one there had ever attended a farm-to-table dinner prior to ours. Many guests remarked, “This is by far the coolest wedding reception I have ever seen.” Even the outspoken, hard-to-impress Suzy Gorman proclaimed it “the best reception I’ve ever done. It’s like a movie set, dude; it’s like f—king Naaapaaa.”
Photography courtesy of Suzy Gorman
After dinner, guests were encouraged to grab a mini Mason jar of “The Last of the Illinois Peaches” cobbler and explore—to check out the horses and too-classy-to-cluck Dominique chickens, or walk up to the lake at sunset. One of the guitarists had pied-pipered the latter group, and by the time Suzi and I arrived, the minstrel was seated in front of a bonfire, plucking away, and the coterie was in full chatter.
Gorman was right: It was like a movie. Sunset at the lake was the third and last stop on George and Suzi’s just-trust-us adventure. I was pleased—and finally starting to relax.
The bus ride back to town was roused by Angel Wings (chocolate-dipped slices of cheesecake on a stick from Hank’s Cheesecakes) and chilled Aquafina. To the west were fingers of lightning, telegraphing a heat-induced thunderstorm (a “gully washer,” we were later told) that at the time was inundating farm, field, and fire pit. All day, I’d thought our timing had been off, but as I fixated on the flashes out the rear window, I realized I was mistaken.
Photography courtesy of Suzy Gorman
