May 2007, Studio City, California

By Ilona Saari

For the record, I’m not Mexican, I wasn’t getting married, and the guest list was limited to 50 people. But it was still my big fat Mexican wedding.

Back story: I’m a writer. Translation: I have a flexible schedule and a lot of time on my hands when the muse is hiding. Some years I ago, I volunteered in an after-school tutoring program. It was there that I met an adorable third grader, a Mexican-American girl my husband and I “adopted” in our hearts and have mentored continually over the years.

Fast-forward to a few months ago: Our “daughter” called. She said she’s getting married in four weeks, and because her family can’t afford to give her a wedding, she and her fiancé are going to City Hall. Could we join them?

OK. That’s nice. Following in my footsteps. My first wedding had been in City Hall. The operative word here is “first.” But lots of City Hall marriages turn out fine, right?!?

To make sure that this was what she really wanted, however, I had to ask if she’d prefer a garden wedding at our house. Without a moment’s hesitation, her answer was “yes.”

So now we were hosting a wedding. In 30 days!!!

Because we live in a California bungalow (translation: not a McMansion), we have a smallish backyard dominated by a pool. The guest list needed to be limited. No problem. A wedding, no matter how small, is a celebration.

Did I mention that my husband and I are both writers? Translation: no fancy caterer or wedding planners. Not to worry. Husband is a fabulous cook, and I had been an “on-air, guest design consultant/decorative artist” for HGTV (how’s that for a credit?). Again, no problem!

Well, husband might not agree, since I decided to use every white linen table cloth my grandmother left me, none of which was pressed. But they’re free! He definitely disagreed when I decided, two weeks before the wedding, to finally paint the dressers in our “shabby chic” bedroom. OK, so I had a couple of problems.

While I ironed a gazillion tablecloths, I decided to further cut wedding costs. No paper plates! I’ve been collecting antique dishes since college, so have more than enough mix-match Limoge, Lenox and Staffordshire to fill a china shop. I also have plenty of silver-plated mix-match cutlery. (If didn’t, I would have borrowed what I needed from friends.)

Glasses would have to be plastic, though. It’s one thing if a plate broke and fell into the pool, but clear glass? Broken in the pool? Nope. However, I didn’t think anyone would mind this bow to picnicware.

The bride’s mom offered to make a few potato-pasta dishes. The groom’s mom would bring sodas, waters and salads. We would provide some food, the champagne for the toasts, white wine, and the wedding cake.

Finding the perfect cake turned out to be our “only in LA” story. We interviewed bakers and tasted their confections, but everything we liked was more than we budgeted.

Our search ended with the woman who made the cake for Eva Longhoria’s wedding on Desperate Housewives. Baker to the stars. Now that’s a credit! She loved our bride-and-groom story and gave us the two-tiered red-velvet cake we wanted at the price we could afford. We had our perfect cake.

It was time for husband to plan his menu. After consulting two dozen cookbooks and quizzing our “culinary” friends, he decided to make a Waldorf salad, grill tri-tips with a chimichurri sauce, and poach a salmon with a mustard-dill sauce. The salmon and sauces could be made the day before. Always a plus when planning a big party.

We scoured our local nurseries for flowering plants to dress up our garden. I plopped a potted pink hydrangea onto a wooden chair with peeling green paint. I tacked straw hats and vintage paintings on the fence, and draped an antique quilt on an old painted screen door that leans against the fence. Very cottagey. Very Provence.

Husband programmed some music into his iPod. Who needs a DJ?

The morning of the wedding, I dressed the outside tables, including a borrowed banquet table set under the trees, with the ironed linen. Husband slapped 8 pounds of tri-tip on the grill. The dining room table was set. Serving dishes a-ready. China and silverware arranged on the buffet.

At noon, the cake arrived, and we set it in its place of honor in the dining room. By 2 p.m., the florist, paid for by the bride’s parents, arrived with centerpieces, boutonnieres and bouquets.

The mother of the bride arrived with two enormous bowls of pasta and potato salad. But don’t forget, this was a big fat Mexican wedding. Translation: you can never have enough food. So, along with the pasta and salad, she made about 50 sandwiches on little dinner rolls, “just in case,” and brought an extra hundred rolls as “backup.”

Father of the bride brought in a half dozen coolers filled with an array of sodas, sparkling and flat waters. A minute later, the groom’s mother walked in with Caesar salads, cut veggies, and a variety of empanadas, “just in case.”

One guest brought croissant sandwiches; another brought platters of sushi and fruit to go along with the cheeses and strawberries we had already put out as “appetizers.” We had everything from sushi to nuts. Literally. I ran out of serving dishes.

Soon everyone had arrived. Husband cranked up the iPod, and classical music filled the air as the bride and her attendants walked down the “aisle” alongside the pool to the waiting groom.

The ceremony was beautiful. It was in Spanish for the bride’s parents and, though I didn’t understand a word, I understood the “I dos” and cried. I, too, was a “mother of the bride.”

The groom dipped his new wife as he kissed her. Everyone cheered. Time to toast. To eat. To dance by the pool. And when it was over, I went in the kitchen to start doing dishes, but the bride’s mom and sister were already there. A brother-in-law was stripping the tables. Another was sweeping up. There was little for me to do.

I kicked off my shoes and had another glass of wine. By 11 p.m., everyone was gone, but just before our darling “daughter” left, I asked her if her day was all she hoped for.

With tears in her eyes, she told me “It was perfect!”

Wedding: $490. The happiness of our “daughter”: Priceless. Que mas puedes pedir? Translation: What more can you ask?

Iona Saari is a freelance TV/film writer and essayist whose work has appeared in newspapers as diverse as the New York Daily News, the Anderson Valley Advertiser and Raivaaja, a Finnish-American weekly. She has also appeared as an “on-air design consultant/artist” for HGTV.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Monday, July 2nd, 2007 | Email This Post

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