The 9th of August was a lovely day for a Wedding.
The sun shone brightly through the paper lantern fringed tree tops, the sky a
dazzling blue with barely a wisp of cloud. A soft breeze whispered against the
pink and blue stripped pom-poms which adorned the bright white ceiling of the
marquee with a flurry of colour, gently rippling the blush pink roses and snow-like
baby’s breath blooms that spilled from blue and white striped vintage jugs on
sage green clothed tables. Glasses were polished. The bar was stocked. The
Bride was padding around, manicured and massaged and in a ‘MRS’ emblazoned
dressing gown, with a plate of smoked salmon in one hand and a glass of
champagne in the other.
How very idyllic you may think; well, as always, the view
from the kitchen was a slightly different story. Covered from head to (not-so
manicured) toe in specks of fragrant green coriander, with a smear of
horseradish crème fraiche acting as effective war paint, and with an elegant
sprinkling of bright pink pomegranates knotted into my hair; while the Bride
was blushing, I was drowning in a sea of bilinis, marinated king prawns and
parmesan shavings. Yes, as you may remember, I am never one to turn down the
opportunity to make anything miniature, but 700? After a week camping in
Cornwall? With just one and a half days to shop, cook and get the West-country sand
out of my bird nest like barnet? Yes, it is fair to say that I may have bitten
off slightly more mini Yorkshire pudding than I could chew...
The blushing bride in question was my lovely Auntie Polly,
who, after 23 odd years, a truly fabulous son and numerous dogs, birds and
horses; decided with my (now official) uncle Tony, that it was about time to sign
the dotted line. Pintrest became her new best friend (along with my little
sister Harriet, on the basis of her exemplary event planning skills), finding a
job lot of vintage china on eBay became akin to discovering the charity shop
Victoria Beckham sends her old handbags to, and I, in a moment of excited
delusion, decided that I would play caterer. My Mum, as she calmly volunteered
to make the four tiered Wedding cake (and the wedding breakfast dessert to
boot), was clearly affected by the same strain of pre-nuptial fever, better
judgement clouded by a box of candy striped cutlery bags (of course) and a
large glass of prosecco. And thus, in a rose-tinted blur, it was settled;
August was set to be a very busy month...
Having unflinchingly delegated the unenviable tasks of
perfectly rising and crisping a hundred tiny Yorkshires and cutting the same
number of cayenne spiked parmesan shortbreads to my 83 year old Granny (I have
no guilt, she loves mini things as much as me...), the bulk of the spreading,
sprinkling and sprucing was left until the 24 hours before the ominously named
‘Big Day’. I made more dill flecked bilinis than I thought physically possible.
I chopped garlic until I reeked of a Vampire fearing Frenchman. I lovingly beat
smoked trout and horseradish pate until the lingering whiff of smoke was less
from the fish and more from the rate at which the wooden spoon sped around the
bowl. By the time I fell into my bed, a cream cheese splattered heap of oven
induced exhaustion, not one single canapé had made its way on to the waiting, doily
laden vintage platters.
The 9th of August dawned in a symphony of blue
skies and birdsong. Yes, very much the perfect day for a wedding. And the perfect day to pass
out, delirious, in a sweaty pile in the middle of the flower (and after I was
finished with it, flour) adorned kitchen, arms flailing like a disused
windmill, muttering lemon crème fraiche recipes and dusted in a confetti of
chopped chives. Yes, while endless bottles of personalised French champagne
were being passed, conveyer belt style into the makeshift bar (it certainly
pays to have friends in high places, particularly in vineyards...), I was
drowning in a sea of novelty cocktail sticks and Marie Rose sauce. Call it
madness if you must, and yes, I probably do need to get out more but, I absolutely
loved every balsamic drizzling minute. As the hour of the wedding approached,
the presentation getting rapidly less Michelin star precision and more at the
Jamie O end of ‘arty masquerading as plain effing messy’, I finally set down my
trusty coriander plant and ran, barefoot, across the gravel drive, to slap on
some makeup and throw on my dress. In hindsight, and with pictorial evidence to
back up my fears, wedding makeup in 15 minutes is not to be recommended,
irrespective of whether your pear and walnut tarte tatins still need warming in
the oven before being topped with stilton and toasted walnuts...
After the deed was done, tissues well used and confetti in
every pleat and parting; the hungry guests descended on the sun baked reception
like a clan of frenzied foodies at a complimentary pop-up burger joint. Trays
of crostini topped with bright green pea, broad bean, mint and pecorino smash;
flowery platters of classic rare roast beef, horseradish and watercress Yorkies;
corn fritters with spicy mango salsa and sour cream; tray upon tray of popadoms
topped with charred tikka prawns, mango chutney and nigella seeds; smoked
chicken Caesar crostini; chorizo, fennel and manchego shortbreads; great dishes
of sticky and sweet ginger glazed sausages with spicy blackberry ketchup- All
my hard work was demolished in seconds.
And, as I sat down with the square of sweet potato, red
pepper and chorizo tortilla and the solitary skewer of watermelon, marinated
feta, olive and mint that I managed to salvage from the starving masses, I
realised that I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. Stress? By the vintage
enamel bucketload. A reignited (if slightly unconventional) passion for canapés
and catering? Roll on Christmas is all I can say...
