The bride, once again, was oddly sympathetic. The groom, once again, was a poet. Why am I a caterer, you ask, and not a poet, such a way I have with words? Maybe because of the tedium of marriage, a tedium I expect some day soon to become my right. I have a hunch that a sympathetic bride might hesitate to call herself such. Bride, I mean, not sympathetic.
Pies are the new cupcakes, someone remarked, as, squatting, we shoveled said pie into our pie holes. Yes, pies, like cupcakes before them, are shaking the very foundations of marriage.
I went home with some better than usual champagne.