Home at Last

simply perfect

The perfect Santa Fe wedding at home, like married life itself, comes with a helping of unpredictability—with flowers, food, and joyous occasions unfurling in their own sweet time.

By Christine MatherThis article first appeared in Autumn 2008 Su Casa

A “simple wedding” is an oxymoronic phrase of the highest order, matched only, perhaps, by “marital bliss” as a conjunction of words that are cruelly and delightfully contradictory. I ought to know, since I recently survived a “simple wedding” held at my Santa Fe home by my daughter Thais and her new spouse, Rob.

Just like elegant, simple can be hard to perfect because it implies that something must appear effortless—this is where the cruel contradictory nature of the event comes into play. Simple, yes. Effortless, I don’t think so. At the outset let me disclaim any credit for the perfect simple wedding that ensued because it was made clear to me that I was not to go into my supreme allied commander mode, but rather I was to be passed over in this role—one which I have been practicing for most of my life—in deference to the bride. Since I am so accustomed to being Miss Bossy Pants around the house, I found this to be a difficult new challenge that I handled by dithering around not knowing exactly what I should or shouldn’t be doing. When I explained how I had to recuse myself from running the show, a friend acknowledged how difficult that must have been for me—with no apparent irony. Naturally, Rob and Thais had their own vision of their wedding, but, having never created such an event, there were times when it seemed as if the whole thing might implode at any moment.

Fortunately, they were quite clear about what they didn’t want, such as people wandering around with small trays and tiny napkins explaining the ingredients of miniscule tidbits, nor did they want a champagne-y, big-tent, sit-down-dinner affair with groomsmen and bridesmaids, nor a big tall white cake with icing made of sweetened Styrofoam held up by food-grade PVC pipes. In short, they wanted a wee private wedding and a bang-up party.

Needless to say, my husband, Dave, with a middle name of Macdonald proclaiming his Scotsman heritage, was thrilled not to be footing a bill greater than the cost of our first home. He wisely forwarded some monetary units, made a couple of weak efforts at filling requests, and then retired from the field, being careful to keep his head down and his mouth shut, an admirable strategy that was quite beyond the capabilities or inclinations of the mother of the bride.

In addition to knowing their dislikes, the young couple was blessedly in agreement on what they did want—they wanted New Mexican with a good dollop of Montana for added flavor. In a strategic move designed to overcome bridal industry inflation, they refrained from using the “w” word whenever ordering anything—is that clever or what? So if you don’t like red and green enchiladas, carne adovada, calabacitas, or chocolate cake with chocolate ganache and raspberry filling, all topped off with sangria and a keg of a perfect summer brew, Hefeweizen, you’d have been out of luck, but the rest of us were pretty darn happy.

Of course all of this required the palate of real foodies willing to stretch into virgin wedding territory for the right stuff. So the food came from a gas station restaurant in Pecos, New Mexico, called Pancho’s, and the beer was a special order from the Northwest Coast, a Montana favorite that caused quite a spelling and pronunciation challenge for the guys at the supplier’s in Pojoaque—no doubt the folks in Oregon felt the same way about the shipping address in New Mexico. And then there was the cake. 

The cake almost took the cake as being the disaster to remember. Fortunately, the pushy mother-in-law-to-be (moi) thought it just might be a good idea to call the day before to check up on it, only to discover that somehow the order, though paid for, had been lost—after all, this is New Mexico! But not to worry, it was a single-level chocolate masterpiece that made the party on time and had the folks lining up. It also made for a very good breakfast.

Although the cake stood out as the closest thing to a man-made disaster, we had other things to preoccupy our thoughts in the days leading up to the event. By having a garden wedding, we had the entire natural world to worry over. We had many floral anxieties, such as, will the rose bushes, which had been pushing out flowers in profusion, make it to Wedding Day? (No.) How about the Icelandic poppies? (One left.) So we watched like crazed farmers as the cycle of life cycled along, paying no attention to our neurotic concerns. The hollyhocks saved the day as their long stalks blossomed forth in unison, filling the garden with their traditional glory. But the biggest fear of all was the weather.

We were flying without a safety net, counting on the notorious hot and dry New Mexico June leading up to the monsoons of July. But when late June arrived, so did the storm clouds over the mountains. During the wedding week, the clouds massed each day at 4 p.m., winds kicked up, the sky spit, and we knew, just knew, that we might have the storm cell of the century hovering over our house on W-day. Like an allied invasion, we waited until the last moment, then moved, setting out the tablecloths and candles. While the sky darkened and the wind pushed, Dave hustled the bride across the yard, striding as if he were headed to a blue-light special. But the weather held, and held some more. Only when our little group of close family popped the corks for a toast before the reception did the wind kick again, cascading a few flutes to the ground—good luck, surely—and the sky spattered forth a brief fertile rain as we stood beneath a small tent. Then it stopped, and the guests began to arrive.

No wedding planner could have orchestrated the remainder of the perfect simple wedding as it unfurled in a constant effortless roll of friends, food, music, and family during a calm, luminous night. The moment when I realized that perfection had been reached was when I turned to a friend and said all we needed now was for the mariachis to arrive, only to be told to turn around. There they were, all lined up and ready. Ah, the land of poco tiempo where everything happens just the way it should—in its own sweet time—sending off the young couple, together, into an unpredictable world.

Christine Mather is a museum curator, as well as an author of Santa Fe Style, Santa Fe Houses, Native America, and True West, volumes that explore design and lifestyle.