Making an Entrance

Coming together is a beginning; keeping together is progress; working together is success.

Henry Ford

Wednesday is Tip day--the day I post a tip sheet (for brides or just anyone looking for creative ideas) on my blog. Here's this week's

Make an Entrance! 10 Ways to get you and your Entourage down the Aisle

1. Groom waits up front with best man and groomsmen. Bridesmaids enter one by one, unescorted, followed by flower girl/ring-bearer, with Bride entering last. Note: This is the best choice if your numbers of men and women in your bridal party are not equal.

2. Groom wait up front with best man. Groomsmen and bridesmaids enter as couples, followed by children and then Bride.

3. Groom begins processional, either with his best man, or by escorting his mother to her seat. Bridal party to follow as couples, with Bride entering last.

4. Same as #3, except that groom is escorted by both parents.

5. After everyone else is down the aisle, Bride is escorted by her father or both parents.

6. After everyone else is down the aisle, Bride is escorted by her father (or other male escort). Upon arriving at the front row, Bride’s mother joins Bride and her father, taking Bride’s other arm, and walks the following few steps to meet the groom. (This is a great option if you want to include your mother, but she doesn’t want to escort you all the way down the aisle)

7. After the bridal party enters, the Bride and Groom walk in together. Why not start your ceremony as you live your life…together!

8. The bridal party enters. As the Bride begins her entrance, either with one or both parents, she has no flowers. Her father (and mother) hand her a flower and she begins walking down the aisle. At the end of the rows, lining the aisle, the Bride’s girlfriends, bridal party, or any family members stand and hand her a flower as she passes by—giving her a hug as they do so. The Bride is gathering her bouquet as she makes her entrance! (Consider having your groom, or your grandmother hand you the last flower.) Once at the front, the maid of honor, who has brought a ribbon just for the occasion, takes the Bride’s flowers from her and ties them into a bouquet.

9. Forgo the processional altogether (it’s nerve-wracking anyway!). Simply meet and mingle with your guests until the ceremony starts and then have your officiant gather everyone around. It’s very informal and intimate.

10. Wow your guests at the start! Dance, skip, ride your bikes, or roller blade in!

It's the Little Things

continued from 02/06...

I can not figure out why people describe the Spanish as being a lay back people. The general impression appears to be that they work for a few hours, knock off for siesta, toil for a few more hours (maybe!) knock off for the day and head out for tapas. Hmmm...come to think of it, that's pretty accurate. That all changes in the grocery store, however, where it's everyone for themselves! They don't meander or mosey--they scurry. Loudly. Very, very loudly! Once the imperturbable Spanish cross the threshold of the Supermacado they morph into zealous predators, single-mindedly intent on hunting down their prey (i.e. groceries) and returning to home and hearth triumphant!

After maneuvering our wagons up and down the jam-packed aisles of hyperactive natives, we were a little farther along then when we started. Jeremy braved the fish department and succeeded in purchasing an amount of shrimp roughly equal to what we'd consume at a meal. or so we thought until we realized that the little devils were sold with the heads still on, the removal of which shrunk our haul considerably. We managed to find fruit and bread and potato chips (battatas fritas...yummy!). We had the very good fortune of bumping into our temporary neighbors, Ian and Alison, who patiently explained that the 50 cents paid for the shopping cart was actually a deposit that was returned to the customer upon nestling the cart back into the queue and locking it to the one in front (no wonder the man had glared at me as I'd tried to release his cart from his grasp!). With Ian and Alison to guide us, our courage returned and we were actually able to come home with some food that we'd actually eat.

But then came the adventure of the heavy cream. Having decided to make both seafood pasta and chocolate mousse for our delightful British neighbors, Ian and Alison, the acquisition of heavy cream became imperative. Back to the Supermacado. But this time, we were prepared, having looked up the words for cream and whipped cream, I figured we could noodle it out. I delegated the finding of the cream to Jeremy and set about picking up the remaining ingredients. After a long time, he zig-zagged his way through the throng of shoppers (it helps that Jeremy is 6'3" so I can always spot him towering over the shorter-statured Spanish) and triumphantly handed me a smallish round container, confidently proclaiming that he'd found the heavy cream. "It doesn't look like heavy cream," I noted. "It is," he replied confidently, "I asked the clerk for it." "The English-speaking clerk?" I asked hopefully. Well, no...but he'd made the motion for beating the cream and she'd nodded vigorously. "I don't think this is heavy cream," I mourned, "I think it is light cream. " An-in-depth discussion in the fruit aisle ensued, followed by me nagging Jeremy into taking me over to the area of the store where he'd found the alleged heavy cream so I could have a look for myself. Hmmm...my gut told me this was not heavy cream. In fact, I was quite sure it was coffee cream, or light cream, but not the whipping variety. With nothing better to offer, I picked up our of the containers, put them in my basket, sighed, paid, bagged, retrieved my 50 cents and left.

Of course we arrived home to discover that we'd purchased four containers of sour cream. I found out later that the "slang" word for heavy cream is actually the Spanish word for "mountain" followed by the word for cream--indicating that when it is beaten, it forms peaks. Duh......

I love America......

Market-ing 101. Spanish Style

When thou art at Rome, do as they do at Rome.

Miguel de Cervantes

So here I was in Spain ready to attempt my first try at the grocery store. On the plus side, I had survived three visits to the DMV in Denver the month before (see my earlier entries) so I was a least prepared for some stress!

I took Jeremy with me for support and plunged into the Super Sol, which I had been told by “my people” was more “English-friendly”. Ha! That’s what I get for listening to the British!

We actually sailed through the shopping part quite smoothly. The gal at the deli taught me the word for turkey (parvo) and I meandered up and down the aisles repeating it over an over so I could sound smart in case I am at a Spanish cocktail party and need to jump into an in-depth discussion of the merits of white verses dark meat. And although it’s a long shot, if I do come across a large dumb-looking bird gobbling whilst out for my morning constitutional in Spain, it would only be the polite thing to do to address it by name, don’t you agree? Of course I was lulled into a sense of false security, which became quite evident when we went to check out. Piling everything from my basket onto the belt, I gave my friendliest “hola” to the clerk and began fumbling for my credit card. The first few items slid through without incident, but when she got to the fruit, there was much gesturing and rapid speech, indicating that we’d obviously been remiss in something. Damned if I could figure out what it was, however.

“Maybe they don’t like selling fruit to Americans,” I postulated to Jeremy, “perhaps it behooves them to keep us vitamin-deficient…or (gasp!) even constipated!” No, that wasn’t it. After a few more points and inarticulate syllables being flung our way, we warily picked up the fruit and shuffled back to the fruit department. Apparently we were supposed to weigh and bag the fruit there ourselves. I found the scale, but as I didn’t know the price of bananas or what the heck a kilo is, it wasn’t much help. Finally a kindly English lady took pity on me and told me that I had to bring the fruit over to the gal who works in the department and she’d be happy to weigh, bag and price it for me—which she was. Back to the line, where the people behind us were being mercifully patient, I gave the fruit triumphantly to the gal, handed her my credit card, even understood what she wanted when she asked for identification (although I felt compelled to offer an apology for the Bush administration as I handed her my U.S. passport) and we were off—relatively unscathed for a first attempt, I felt. Ha! I didn’t cry once!

Of course, the way Jeremy and I eat, this paltry amount lasted barely a day and then we found ourselves once more in need of sustenance. Having had only the one issue at the Super Sol, we felt confident to venture into the Supermercado, which caters primarily to the Spanish community. That’s where the adventure began!

Keep in mind that space in most cities in Europe is tight. This is not Texas, my friends, so parking is always at a premium. Don’t think for a minute that it’s like dashing to the Safeway for a gallon of milk. After circling the underground parking garage for about as much time as it would have taken us to go out to lunch, Jeremy finally squeezed the car into a spot. We alighted full of energy and ready for our first real Spanish shopping experience. Spotting a man returning his cart to the queue, I smiled and held out my hand to take it from him (figuring that was pretty much a universal gesture). To my chagrin, he threw me a malevolent look, slammed the cart in to nestle with the rest and then, glaring at me reached over the tip of it, where he picked up a lock that was hanging there and bolted it to the cart in front! Glaring at me once again, he stomped off to his car. I desolately walked back to Jeremy, who was having his own issues-- fiddling with the elevator buttons, trying to see if the store itself was above or below us. “They don’t let Americans use the shopping carts, I lamented—they lock us out of them. I think you have to know some secret Spanish code to get them unlocked!” “That’s crazy,” said my beloved, “we’ll go into the store and figure it out.”

Sure enough, upon alighting from the elevator, we came upon more rows of locked-up carts. Upon further investigation, we found that the secret of freeing one of the coveted wagons was to insert a fifty cent piece into them. Doing so popped the lock as if by magic! Bristling at having to pay fifty cents for a shopping cart (yet relieved to find that everyone has to pay, not just the tourists), I opted for one of their smaller baskets, which are a little larger than the carry-around baskets we’re used to and they have wheels and a pull-handle so you can wheel them around behind you like a wagon. So they two of us started out with our wagons, Jeremy shaking his head about my refusal to spring for the big cart and me spouting epithets about the people who try to make a buck off absolutely everything!

To be continued……

To market, to market

The familiar is everything

Nicolas Roeg

It's a funny thing about supermarkets. One doesn't think much of them until they become less than second nature. Let's face it, you probably haven't spent too many sleepless nights wondering if your local grocer has an adequate supply of Chex Mix or if the avocadoes are soft to the touch. You may peruse the Sunday ad, clip a coupon or twelve, choose between organic or processed, create a list (or not) and then make the ultimate choice between paper or plastic, but for the most part, you must admit shopping for food is one of our more ritualistic behaviors.

Until it’s not. I remember when this realization dawned on me. It was many years ago and I had just moved from Rhode Island (where I had always lived until that time) to Vermont. This was a distance of some 250 miles—hardly the equivalent of going from… say New York City to a peasant village in Botswana. Nonetheless, it was adjustment and on one particular day in the first week of our arrival, after dealing with a 5 year old with an ear infection (and not knowing where the local emergency room was located, let alone a pediatrician) a crib that hadn’t been delivered by the movers (they just couldn’t quite locate it) leading to a very over-tired and cranky 17-month old and a assortment of other things gone wrong, I took upon myself the task of stocking my new kitchen pantry. Bad idea. I have a distinct memory of walking down the aisle of the local A&P (fortunately without the children) and just sniffling and then ultimately sobbing because everything was in the wrong place. This was not my Stop and Shop! Nothing was familiar; my usual products weren’t available; they grouped things in odd arrangements (Vermonters had a lot of time on their hands back them—they probably still do!) I suddenly had a new understanding of the words “comfort food”. I had subconsciously undertaken an endeavor that I thought would add a modicum of normalcy to my newly chaotic life and found instead yet another arena in which I was in need of adaptation.

It was a lesson I’ve never forgotten. To an avid cook and a mother who nurtures her family with food (among other things) I have learned that I worship at the altar of King Sooper, Grand Union, Price Chopper etc. and that shopping in an unfamiliar store feels, to me, like the equivalent of participating in an exotic or foreign religious ritual. Sacrilege! Talk about being out of your comfort zone! I’ve been very careful since that time never to underestimate the influence that the local supermarket has over me. With each move--be it to a new state or a new neighborhood-- I cautiously approach the various options….sleuthing them out. Hmmmm... what kind of energy does this one exude? Who will it be? The one closest to home? Who has the best customer service, the best prices? How are things laid out? Who else shops there? What is the ratio of squeeky-wheel shopping carts vis a vis the number of shopping carts overall? Oh yes, a monumental decision to be sure. An aside note here--when I moved to Colorado, I was appalled to learn that the "natives" call shopping carts "buggies". Now I'm all about adapting to the local customs, but I've yet to bring myself to call my shopping cart a "buggy" and I've lived in Colorado since 1995! I just can't do it!

Now that I have learned that I have…well….certain “issues” in the area of "grocery store chi", it has become an amusing pastime of mine to observe the behavior of my fellow shoppers—especially in stores that are new to me. As you can imagine, I approached the task of marketing in Spain with great gusto. Okay….and a little intimidation given my bawling episode in aisle 5 of the A&P, so I took Jeremy with me. The tale of that escapade will need to wait for another day, but believe me, it will be well worth the wait. For now, it is time for siesta. Adios!