It was July 2, 1994. The day started off with stormy weather—torrential rain, thunder and lightning, hail, and high winds.
Not the best weather for an outdoor wedding.
I drove to the event, through rain, wondering what we were going to do. We had 55 guests that would have nowhere to go for shelter, as the reception room, the tea house at the Mackenzie King Estate, in Kingsmere, wouldn't be open to them until 6, as it was still open to the public until 5. They were in for a soaking.
Or so it seemed, until the rain eased, then ended, just as my best man and I pulled into the parking lot. The wind was still blowing, but that was a good thing: by 4:30, it had pushed away the clouds and let the sun dry the lawn.
By the time the ceremony started, the weather couldn't have been better. Even the wind eased off, blowing only enough to keep the mosquitoes at bay.
The ceremony was short and sweet. The reception and dinner was perfect. The service was spectacular. The music and dancing was fun.
But that cake. Oh, that cake.
We were told that the baker in this supermarket specialized in wedding cakes: he was highly recommended and we had tasted some of his work at another wedding. His price was hard to beat, and so we ordered our cake from him.
It looked delicious. And as we had our dear friends and family gather for the official cutting, we began to drool over our pending nuptial dessert.
DW and I held hands as we sank the serving knife into the cake. We met some resistance and pressed a little harder. And harder.
And then I put my weight into it.
For all the good that wedding cake looked, it was drier than the wind and sun had made the lawn for our ceremony.
We posed for a shot of us taking a bite. What wasn't captured was us, spitting it out into a napkin and setting the rest of the slice aside. There was no serving to our guests: we loved them, after all.
The cake went back to the baker after the weekend and a refund was demanded.
An early Happy 22nd Anniversary to my co-cake killer.
(Photos by Marc Dufour)