A Vanilla-Rocky Road Wedding
My family is pretty vanilla: no interesting religions (boring old Protestant), cultural heritage (Oh, Canada!), or income status (thoroughly middle class). One of us, however, graduated to rocky road.
My cousin, Michael, made his way to Chicago in search of bigger, brighter things—and has done very nicely for himself. The icing on this wonderful cake (or ice cream, as it were) is his now-wife, Margie, whom I had the privilege of seeing him wed recently. Margie’s family is definitely not vanilla.
We’ve known Margie for a long time—it took them nearly eight years to get the “I do’s” said. And in that time, we’ve come to find out that besides being beautiful, talented, and an all-round exceptional person, Margie and her family are Polish, wealthy, and Catholic. All very exotic things to us vanilla folk.
Take, for example, the wedding ceremony. My cousin converted to Catholicism before the wedding, so he knew what was going on, but the rest of the family—one whole side of the church, in fact—was lost for the vast majority of the service. During Presbyterian churches and wedding ceremonies, we just sit there like bumps on a pew. We consent to stand for hymns, but that’s about as much exercise as we’re willing to get in a house of worship.
Catholics are up and down, kneeling and standing, and generally breaking a sweat. Which is good, because I found out that Polish people regard a growling stomach as a personal insult. I’ve never seen so much food in my life. We had a multi-course dinner at the reception (featuring silverware that all of the women had to explain to their husbands and boyfriends) that left even those of us with the heartiest of appetites stuffed to the gills. Then, a couple of hours later, another buffet appeared.
Everything looked and tasted so good, but I only have so much room in my stomach. I blame myself; I should have been training for that weekend. I still remember the Sunday brunch and weep at the thought of all the food I couldn’t find room for.
It wasn’t just the calisthenics and the avalanche of food that was new and different, though. During the ceremony, I noticed half of the church (guess which half) responded to the priest in perfect unison during pauses I didn’t even hear. I thought I had missed something in the program, but everyone on my side of the aisle had the same confused look—eyebrows drawn together, mouths slightly open, eyes desperately searching the front of the church for cue cards. At least I wasn’t alone in my befuddlement.
Some of the best parts of the wedding included elements from Margie’s Polish heritage. In one lovely ceremony, which is apparently common at Polish weddings, the bride’s and groom’s parents came forward and bestowed their blessings on the couple—Margie’s parents in Polish and Michael’s in English.
This wasn’t the only time Polish was used; both languages got equal playing time at the wedding and reception. During one of the speeches in Polish, I looked around and noticed that our family had another uniform look of confusion—though distinctly different from the religious look of confusion. We all had smiles on our faces and our heads were bent slightly forward, as if by getting a little closer to the speaker we might magically understand Polish.
Margie’s brother and sisters made a lovely (I think) toast to the newlyweds in Polish at the reception. I don’t know where one attendee was during the three hours leading up to that moment, but I overheard him say, “Is it just me, or does it sound like they’re speaking another language?” Let me just say that the reception included an open bar.
There were two bands at the reception—one that played standards and music from the 1960s and a band that played—you guessed it—Polish music. We all strutted our stuff to songs like “My Girl” and “Brick House” for a couple of hours before the second band took over. That was when the real fun started.
All of the vanillas took a seat and watched in awe as the Polish contingent showed us what dancing was. I’d heard the term “fancy footwork,” but until then I’d never witnessed a literal demonstration. From toddlers who could barely walk to seniors who could barely walk, every single person had phenoemnal rhythm and appeared to be having the time of their lives. The seated women poked their partners in the ribs and said, “See? Those men didn’t have to be dragged onto the floor!”
All in all, though, it was an incredible weekend. The vanilla and the rocky road made a terrific sundae. (Can you tell I’m still thinking about the food?) TPW
My cousin, Michael, made his way to Chicago in search of bigger, brighter things—and has done very nicely for himself. The icing on this wonderful cake (or ice cream, as it were) is his now-wife, Margie, whom I had the privilege of seeing him wed recently. Margie’s family is definitely not vanilla.
We’ve known Margie for a long time—it took them nearly eight years to get the “I do’s” said. And in that time, we’ve come to find out that besides being beautiful, talented, and an all-round exceptional person, Margie and her family are Polish, wealthy, and Catholic. All very exotic things to us vanilla folk.
Take, for example, the wedding ceremony. My cousin converted to Catholicism before the wedding, so he knew what was going on, but the rest of the family—one whole side of the church, in fact—was lost for the vast majority of the service. During Presbyterian churches and wedding ceremonies, we just sit there like bumps on a pew. We consent to stand for hymns, but that’s about as much exercise as we’re willing to get in a house of worship.
Catholics are up and down, kneeling and standing, and generally breaking a sweat. Which is good, because I found out that Polish people regard a growling stomach as a personal insult. I’ve never seen so much food in my life. We had a multi-course dinner at the reception (featuring silverware that all of the women had to explain to their husbands and boyfriends) that left even those of us with the heartiest of appetites stuffed to the gills. Then, a couple of hours later, another buffet appeared.
Everything looked and tasted so good, but I only have so much room in my stomach. I blame myself; I should have been training for that weekend. I still remember the Sunday brunch and weep at the thought of all the food I couldn’t find room for.
It wasn’t just the calisthenics and the avalanche of food that was new and different, though. During the ceremony, I noticed half of the church (guess which half) responded to the priest in perfect unison during pauses I didn’t even hear. I thought I had missed something in the program, but everyone on my side of the aisle had the same confused look—eyebrows drawn together, mouths slightly open, eyes desperately searching the front of the church for cue cards. At least I wasn’t alone in my befuddlement.
Some of the best parts of the wedding included elements from Margie’s Polish heritage. In one lovely ceremony, which is apparently common at Polish weddings, the bride’s and groom’s parents came forward and bestowed their blessings on the couple—Margie’s parents in Polish and Michael’s in English.
This wasn’t the only time Polish was used; both languages got equal playing time at the wedding and reception. During one of the speeches in Polish, I looked around and noticed that our family had another uniform look of confusion—though distinctly different from the religious look of confusion. We all had smiles on our faces and our heads were bent slightly forward, as if by getting a little closer to the speaker we might magically understand Polish.
Margie’s brother and sisters made a lovely (I think) toast to the newlyweds in Polish at the reception. I don’t know where one attendee was during the three hours leading up to that moment, but I overheard him say, “Is it just me, or does it sound like they’re speaking another language?” Let me just say that the reception included an open bar.
There were two bands at the reception—one that played standards and music from the 1960s and a band that played—you guessed it—Polish music. We all strutted our stuff to songs like “My Girl” and “Brick House” for a couple of hours before the second band took over. That was when the real fun started.
All of the vanillas took a seat and watched in awe as the Polish contingent showed us what dancing was. I’d heard the term “fancy footwork,” but until then I’d never witnessed a literal demonstration. From toddlers who could barely walk to seniors who could barely walk, every single person had phenoemnal rhythm and appeared to be having the time of their lives. The seated women poked their partners in the ribs and said, “See? Those men didn’t have to be dragged onto the floor!”
All in all, though, it was an incredible weekend. The vanilla and the rocky road made a terrific sundae. (Can you tell I’m still thinking about the food?) TPW