Diary of The Food Whore

I’ve spent the last few weeks helping The Cousin put the final touches on her wedding… wanting so desperately to come and write about it, but unable to start one single post without the words, “Bitch…”

Family. I do adore them. But with a family dynamic like ours comes firey personalities that, when multiplied, go the way of bad slasher films.

The Cousin and I have had a love/hate relationship since birth. She the overly spoiled and self entitled only child, and me never born with the gift of keeping my mouth shut. Even in church… always with the talking… a relationship that escalated when we both reached the age of 12 and hormones only magnified what we brought to the table.

And when you place those two dynamics together in planning a wedding… excuse me…. THE wedding… things go well only as long as I find a way to keep my mouth shut. And that way, as I found, is a stern look from The Mother. Even at my tender age of *cough*41*cough* The Mother can still shoot me a look from across the room and silence what she knows will be a very appropriate, but very ill timed opinion.

Seriously, The Mother… she’s fierce.

But things were really going ok. This was The Cousin’s Dream… so live the dream. Just don’t be mean to the caterers. And in this case, The Caterers belonged to a lovely team of professionals working out of a gorgeous historic estate. And by “gorgeous historic” I mean gorgeous estate… lovely grounds… but historic kitchen in every sence of the word. In the basement, no less. And I felt their pain on so many levels, watching as people plowed through platters of ceviche’ like it was the last supper before armageddon.

I found myself going overboard to say how delicous everything was, and thanking them profusely. Desperately trying to make up for every snobbish, wobbly heeled princess who refused to make eye contact with the working class. Or by waving their hands at platters as if they were filled with mounds of dirt.

But there were a lot of lovely people there… people who appreciated the efforts and the fabulous food. People who laughed and shared stories over steak medallions with bearnaise… which, if I can say, I would be happiest swimming in a pool of delicous bearnaise….

Anyway.

The Cousin, unfortunately, did not share in the good spirits of those lovely few. And instead hiked up her dress to march across the lawn and point out that one of the servers opted to wear a black tie instead of brown as she requested. It was… unbelievable.

And as she marched back across the lawn, I will admit that I maybe slid my foot in the direction of her path to maybe kind of trip her up a little, but then I noticed a laserbeam from across the way burning into my head - a look, from The Mother. So I rolled my eyes, sighed, and pulled my foot back. And The Mother raised her eyebrow and her wine glass back in my direction.

Sometimes I wish I was still 12, because I totally would have tripped her.

This entry was posted on Saturday, October 17th, 2009 at 1:02 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.