The wedding was beautiful. Everyone had tears in their eyes by the time the bride and her father reached the groom, because the groom was singing her entrance song and she realized it midway up the path strewn with fresh gardenias.
The downing of shots
Midway through the ceremony, cousin Bitsy downed a bottle of bubble stuff. Chugged it like a shot. I heard a sputtering cough behind me and knew exactly what had happened. Two year olds.
The seafood of dubious origin
After the ceremony, we all went to a restaurant, Chef Roy’s Frog City Cafe, for dinner. The name is very relevant to the next bit.
The kids decided that they wanted grown-up food, Mom, really. There were three choices: grilled chicken, ribeye steak, and the large seafood platter. After much negotiation, I let Rebecca get the grilled chicken and Marcus the large seafood platter. We waited a good while for the food to arrive, and there was much rumbling and grumbling from the under tens. As soon as the salads hit the table, the kids demolished theirs, even though earlier they had discussed at great length their desire to avoid eating salad.
So by the time the entrées arrived, they were famished. Madeline ate all of the grilled chicken (which was clearly the dieter’s choice meal) while Marcus and Rebecca split the large seafood platter. And by large, I mean southern Louisiana plate of fried food large.
Marcus extolled the virtues of every piece of seafood on his plate and then some. At some point, he started talking about the bones in his fish and how it must be tilapia, but by then I had tuned him out and was busy trying to keep Madeline from upending water all over herself.
Later on, I looked over at his plate and saw a small pile of bones picked clean that looked for all the world like chicken wing bones. I remembered the vague tilapia comment. I remembered the restaurant’s name. I remembered the definition of seafood in Louisiana.
I leaned over to Marcus, “Marcus, are those the tilapia bones?”
“Yeah, it was kind of bony.”
“Um, sweetie, that was a frog leg.”
He shook his head, “You’re kidding, right?”.
“No, hon, you ate a frog leg.”
He turned an interesting shade of green. “I think I need to go use the bathroom.”
“Nope. You’ll be fine.” And he was.
The GPS ankle tracking unit in Rebecca’s future
After dinner, we drove back to Matthew’s parents’ house for dancing. There was much dancing to be had. Rebecca asked every man to dance, from tween to octogenarian. She had many, many dance partners. She never left the dance floor. She had the time of her life.
I am so doomed.
The bad catch
The bride threw her bouquet. Rebecca did not catch it. A bridesmaid did. So far, so good.
The groom threw the garter. It landed in front of Marcus and he picked it up. His slacker uncle did not dive for it. Slacker. SLACKER.
“Don’t worry, Marcus, it’ll make a great slingshot,” said his aunt.
Then came the part where he was informed of the whole putting it onto the young lady who caught the bouquet. He turned red and offered it to anyone who would take it, with a bit of nine year old drama thrown in for effect. I started to feel a teensy bit like a fish out of water. Matthew took him aside and explained that he just had to kneel on one knee and put it on her leg. Still with the gasping fish. Over the foot. Slight snag on her high heel. Up to the knee. Just over her knee. Perfectly executed.
I have been informed that my face was just as red as his.
