The Wedding Story

Who’s got the wedding rings?

The day we set the date of the wedding at City Hall, the marriage celebrant asked us if we wanted to exchange rings during the ceremony. This surprised me. I’d assumed the exchange of rings was obligatory. Call me old-fashioned, but in my mind, a wedding without the exchange of rings is not a real wedding. I can do without the church, the expensive gifts and the sumptuous reception, and I’ll gladly show up wearing any old thing if I have to. But the rings, the rings are non-negotiable. The food at the reception gets eaten, the wedding dress gets doused in mothballs, but the rings last forever. That’s what makes them such a powerful symbol. The rings are for Love In All Eternity. As we wear them, they become part of our body, we carry them on us everywhere, at all times, for the rest of our lives. No. Even if we didn’t have much money, we simply had to have the rings!

Turning left at City Hall we took a casual stroll down Via Nassa, the sparkling shopping street in Lugano where all the famous Swiss watch-makers and jewelers line both sides of the pedestrian zone. We agreed if money wasn’t an issue, we’d like two beautiful wedding bands. “Let’s just look, shall we?” I squeezed my lover’s arm. “Maybe we’ll see something and well, there’s no harm in looking. Right?” If I could have any ring, I’d choose one that looked modern, in white gold and studded with diamonds. I came to a full stop. Right there, sparkling in the shop window, was the jewel I’d just described. “Oh, can I try it on, p-p-please?” I jumped up and down shaking my lover’s hand.

The ring fitted perfectly. I felt like Cinderella trying on the crystal shoe. The sales assistant congratulated me on the excellent choice. “It looks very smart.” She then showed us some wedding bands for my partner, who soon found one he liked very much. A wide band of white gold. We also had the rings engraved with our names and the wedding date: 14.02.01. The price? Half of what we’d expected to pay! So that’s how, in less than twenty minutes, we resolved the issue of the wedding bands.

The bouquet

In the first shop, they looked me up and down, then ignored me. I was wearing old jeans and a faded raincoat, so when I walked up to the counter and said I wanted a bouquet for my wedding, the woman just gave me a blank look. Civil ceremony, she must have guessed. Since I wouldn’t require any expensive flower arrangements, I was immediately dismissed. She pretended to be busy, rolling up some important sheets of cellophane. When I enquired about narcissus, I couldn’t help but register her contempt. I felt anger flood every cell in my body. Still, I persevered. This was the most expensive shop in town and I demanded service. I asked her advice, she retorted it was up to me. I looked at the buckets of pale tulips and snowdrops, trying to defuse my rage. I stared at the apprentice’s obtuse face behind the counter. “I am unimpressed,” I hissed at the woman, then promptly quit the shop.

I felt bitter-sweet, but remembered a small flower shop, situated along the cobbled path on the way to the Cathedral. I’d often admired the flower arrangements displayed in their window. I entered and announced I needed a scented bouquet for my wedding. This caught the florist’s imagination, as brides don’t usually request scented flowers. In this shop, I was served with the kind and deferent attention a bride-to-be deserves. They showed me their catalogues and discussed the various possibilities, shapes and sizes of the bouquet, what types of flowers would match my outfit and which ones would be in season.

In the end, I decided on a Nosegay, a round, compact bouquet of large salmon roses bound in ribbon and ivy. Simple and elegant. I also requested a matching boutonnière, a little gift to my beloved.

The cake

I’ve always regarded the three tier fruit-cake of the wedding variety, with distaste. It’s frightfully reminiscent of Australian suburbia — where the second and third tier must last till the first wedding anniversary and the arrival of the first progeny. There’s something infinitely depressing about knowing you’re going to be chomping on the same sultanas for years to come – a metaphor for married life perhaps? Besides, I’m suspicious of any food that lasts that long. It’s all in the icing, that hard sugar frosting designed to seal the cake from adverse atmospheric conditions and roaches. Like a time capsule.

But for me, a cake is a statement about sensual pleasure and culinary delights. An artistic experience, a cake. Made for special occasions. It speaks of joyful celebrations and the indulgence of the senses. Like an exclamation mark, a cake symbolizes the intense pleasure of now. Something I can hardly imagine a two-year old cake can do. And apart from the bland visual effect of white frosting, what can be less stimulating than sultanas and candied fruit? Sorry, my juices just don’t happen over something that banal: ordinary, dressed up, Christmas cake.

I wanted a cake that would make my guest’s mouths water just by looking at it. And years later, their taste buds would recall with delight. It was going to be luscious. I wanted everyone to taste it with their eyes and feast on it, using their hands and spoons and sighing ecstatically with each new mouthful. Afterwards, we’d lick the chocolate mousse off our fingertips and sip Champagne. Oh, the contrast between the rich, dark chocolate and the refreshing tingle of the wine!

So I designed a superb chocolate gateau. Of all the wedding preparations, the cake became the single, most elaborate element. It was round, it had two levels, it was the color of bitter cocoa and decorated with large shavings of white chocolate. It was custom-made by the best pastry chef in town. The summit of the wedding cake was crowned — not by a machine made, plastic figurine of newlyweds — but with a bouquet of fresh violets. The edible flowers had been dipped in sugar and arranged neatly, inside a chocolate casing, like flowers in a delicious vase. The violets had been imported especially from San Remo, on the Italian Riviera.