Having recently gotten hitched herself, my friend, Amanda, parted me with one piece of advice before I flew to Bali for my own wedding — don’t forget to enjoy the food.
Her advice stuck with me the most as far as wedding advice goes.
Maybe because none else gave me wedding advice, not even Amma — well, maybe other people did. Still, my brain decided it was not significant enough to be remembered (no, I wasn’t being a bridezilla and DON’T call a woman who wants a reasonably beautiful dream wedding a bridezilla, let’s minimize nasty name-calling for women, we have had enough).
Alright, now back to the wedding meal…
Having exclusively one wedding advice registered in my brain, you would think I’d remember to eat on my wedding day. But, no, I didn’t.
I remember Fafa asking me a few times to eat before giving me a plate which I suspiciously thought must be from my Amma, who must have asked him to ask me to eat. I remember eating two or three pieces of canapes in between the wedding shot break to reapply my red lipstick. I remember cutting and sharing our wedding cake with my parents, kissing Amma with a mouth full of it and feeling safe. I remember my aunt complained that the food was so mediocre that we should have catered Indian food instead of Balinese food (how we would find Indian food to feed 100 people in Bali was not of her consideration, I guess). Finally, I remember sipping cocktails from Fafa and my cousins’ glasses.
But the highlight of my wedding meal, the advice from Amanda, happened hours after my wedding day when Fafa and I shared our wedding meal — cold Nasi Padang that I managed to UberEats at 2 AM — in the pitch dark due to the power outage by the pool. My first proper wedding meal, albeit the most memorable one, 2 hours post the wedding day itself.
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