Weddings

I was sitting here blasting away at some old-school OG Kush and I started thinking about weddings.

I have been to very few weddings in my lifetime.

In order, I have been to my own wedding, my Goddaughter’s nuptials, and my cousin’s.

That’s it.

Growing up as a way-too-confirmed bachelor, I was invited to many ceremonies of which I attended none. It sounded so lame to me. Besides, in the circles I traveled in, once you got married you kinda went off the radar.

Oh, I was invited to several, but I was an Executive Chef in Las Vegas, and on the rare occasions I was able to take for myself, well let’s just say I spent addressing my personal hedonistic pursuits.

Going to buy a gift?

Lame.

Rent clothes and shoes?

Lame.

The free food and drinks thing was not a bad thing, but this was Las Vegas.

If you can’t find free food and drinks here, you are a total dumbass.

I know it is hard to fathom, but back then I was known to overdo it on every occasion.

I drank too much.

I did everything too much.

Now when I say I have been to very few weddings in my lifetime, I mean as a guest.

I was looking at my past receipts and banquet orders from the various restaurants and resorts I worked at. I was part of a total of twenty-one weddings. They ranged in size from seventeen to seven hundred.

Now putting on weddings is the best.

The ultimate one-upsmanship game.

Any chef worth his salt will remember his weddings as they represent the best opportunities to build a rep. The smaller weddings pack more per-head count profit, and usually the “wow” factor is amplified in these more intimate settings.

I also used the occasion to create something new, usually a dessert.

I do remember one tender family moment from my niece’s wedding.

All of the non-family guests had left and I had brought some cocaine with me.

Gasp.

Things started to get out of hand as one might imagine when you have us all in the same room, but I do remember waking up (a polite term for regaining consciousness) the next day and my hand was throbbing like hell.

Evidently, my brother and I got to performing some sort of Blood-Brother ceremony and we cut the hell out of each other’s hands (with a rusty corkscrew to boot). Then someone pointed out the fact that all of this was unnecessary because we were in fact real brothers.

Ceremony ended.

Karen and my ceremony was a small affair in the Santa Barbara foothills in a moss-covered amphitheater.

My brother catered it.

Perfect.

“Party of fifteen, please.”

Hug your partner tightly tonight because one day you won’t be able to. I would not wish the pain of loss on anyone.

Stay well.