A wedding in the family...

Dear friend,

“Ah, l’amour…!” sighs Madame Francine, who takes a lively and sympathetic interest in happy events and romance. She brought out a photograph of herself and Monsieur Xavier. At the tender ages of 21 and 23, they stand together in the sunshine of a long-ago afternoon in May. Monsieur Xavier has a slightly mischievous expression. And Madame Francine smiles with the happy boldness of une femme affirmée…a married woman.
 
“En effet,” she affirms. “We’d already been married – the wedding was two days before.” 
 
Indeed! It must have been quite a party, I reflected, if Madame Francine was still in her wedding dress and veil 48 hours after the ceremony. And Monsieur Xavier still in his black suit and starched shirt. And both so crisp and unrumpled!
 
“Ah, ça,” said Madame Francine, shaking her head. “Le photographe forgot to put film in his camera. He didn’t notice until two days after the wedding. He had to come back on the Monday.” 
 
Viola’s eyes widened in alarm. I took her hand soothingly.
 
Our daughter’s own marriage is less than a week away.
 
Last February, the families of Viola and of her intended gathered for les fiancailles. This French tradition formally recognizes an engagement. Le futur’s family invites that of la promise. It is the beginning of a binding together that makes two into one. And each family has the opportunity to take stock.
 
“We just want a simple wedding,” Viola had told us.
 
“That’s right,” Viola’s fiancé confirmed. “Simple.” Simple in French means direct and unpretentious. It doesn’t necessarily mean modest or austere.
 
“Quite right,” assented la cousine Elise, with the superior authority of wide experience and advancing years.
 
“It must be simple…but perfect,” she pronounced, with a nod of her perfectly coiffed head.
 
For nine months, Viola, her sister, the wedding planeuse and myself have been systematically advancing toward this goal of perfect simplicity. We are focused, disciplined, and single-minded, like a team of climbers intent on the ascent of Kilimanjaro.
 
The menu has long been approved. There will be two options: red meat and a large oriental mushroom. The caterer’s wilder fantasies about the vegan diet have been ruthlessly suppressed.
 
We have selected the wine.
 
“Bubbles, of course!” had exclaimed Viola. Champagne is her favorite vintage. And, as she pointed out, it has an ancient connection to one of the families of Chateau de Courtomer, whose descendants still make Ruinart.  But we talked ourselves down from these exalted heights, working our way through crémeux, blanc de blanc, lesser-known champagnes, and moisseux. We settled on one of these, “Petit Royal,” for le bar. For le toast, we'll have a perfectly correct sparkling blanc with the original name of Teavine. It is made by an old friend.

The maker of Teavine enjoys a bouquet of autumn roses at the Chateau

Viola’s father has his own ideas.
 
“Whatever you like,” said Monsieur. “As long it’s Tacana.” 
 
One of Monsieur’s petites follies is a small, extreme-altitude vineyard in the preCordillera of Northwest Argentina. Usually, we visit this vineyard once a year, but we were marooned there for nine and half months during the lockdowns of 2020. During this delightful exile, we consumed so many bottles of Monsieur’s rich and complex Malbec that we used the empties to decorate the adobe walls and make a large cross-shaped window in a chapel we started to build.
 
 “Chaque bouteille vide est remplie d’histoires» -- every empty bottle has tales to tell, as Monsieur Xavier sometimes remarks when cleaning up after a large party.
 
Tacana has had quite enough stories from me. So, although Tacana will be la star of the dinner service, a light Côte de Rhone and a gentle Bourgogne are the rouge options for le open bar. 
 
Simplicity is a concept more difficult to enact than to evoke.
 
The floral designer was lost in a lavish dream of riotous swags, arches, and table décor. The couturière grew misty-eyed describing peach satin and a rare Spanish lace. But in the end, our vision of a simple country wedding is taking shape. There will be long trestle tables dressed in rose-colored linens against the backdrop of green trees and autumnal gardens. A low ribbon of flowers and candles will allow conversation to flow. A single sumptuous wreath will be suspended above the dance floor. And although Viola’s dress is indeed made of satin overlaid with lace, the perfectly simple design sets off the fine silk net of the family veil and the soft luster of 19th-century seed pearls inherited from my namesake.

Yes, something old and something new…
 
For nine months, the gardens have been carefully tended. Stakes hold up the dahlias and the Japanese anemones to prevent a sudden gust of wind or rain from knocking them over. Le grand jour, these stakes are to be whisked away. Roses have been deadheaded with religious fervor all summer, to coax them into autumn bloom.
 
The outbuildings are being transformed into temporary quarters for family members arriving with children. Viola’s father himself, assisted by our Henry and le futur, is applying final coats of paint and wielding a wrench. Starstruck by the manly dexterity of Grandpère and l’Oncle Henry, la petiteDorothée wants to watch. Her brother James fetches tools and carries messages. Yesterday morning, Monsieur informed us that under no circumstances could the toilet in the Cottage be used. He proposed putting a heavy flower pot on top of the lid. But after hours of toil and three trips to la quinquaillerie, the proper fittings were found and the plumbing is usable. Meanwhile, a son-in-law wonders where to find the hot water heater in the farmhouse. And we are answering text messages about babysitters, making final counts of pillows and comforters, waiting for a delivery of glass lanterns, and picking our brains for congenial dinner partners for the late stragglers on the guest list.
 
In the final flurry of these préparatifs, it suddenly seems possible a photographer might forget to put film in his camera. That a glaring moment of catastrophic forgetfulness could indeed occur.
 
“Married life is full of surprises,” remarks Madame Francine, a faraway look in her wide blue eyes. “But…
 
“Amour, amour
Rien n'est plus doux que ta caresse
Amour, amour
Ta voix c'est toute la jeunesse!»
 
“Love, nothing is sweeter than your caress,
Love, the sound of your voice is youth itself.”
 
“I know that one,” said Viola. She sang out in her rich soprano:
 
“Le cœur est fou, comme il bat vite, on a vingt ans
Amour, amour, Le temps est court… »
 
“The heart is mad, how fast it beats when one is twenty
Love, my love, for time is short…”
 
    Until next week, with warm regards -- et à bientôt au Chateau!

P.S. To listen to the above song, click Amour, amour, by the great French troubadour, Charles Trenet.

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To reserve for your own wedding at Chateau de Courtomer in 2022 or 2023, please write to Heather or Béatrice (both are bilingual in English and French), or, of course to me, at info@chateaudecourtomer.com.

We look forward to hearing from you!