Champagne Toast Wedding Quotes

A toast at your wedding, perhaps?” said Eldric. “I shall never get married,” I said. “But I do like champagne.

I began to realize that my pictures of God were old. They were not old in the sense of antique champagne flutes, which are abundant with significance precisely because they are old—when you sip from them you remember your grandmother using them at birthday dinners, or your sister toasting her beloved at their wedding. Rather, they were old like a seventh-grade health textbook from 1963: moderately interesting for what it might say about culture and science in 1963, but generally out of date.

A regiment of servants brought out silver platters and trays of champagne, and the guests settled in their chairs to enjoy the repast. They were given individual servings of goose dressed with cream and herbs and covered with a steaming golden crust... bowls of melons and grapes, boiled quail eggs scattered lavishly on crisp green salad, baskets of hot muffins, toast and scones, flitches of fried smoked bacon... plates of thinly sliced beefsteak, the pink strips littered with fragrant shavings of truffle. Three wedding cakes were brought out, thickly iced and stuffed with fruit.

Guests came and went as they pleased, filling their gold-banded plates with hot breads, poached eggs on toast, smoked quail, fruit salad, and slices of charlotte russe made with sponge cake and Bavarian cream. Footmen crossed through the entrance hall as they headed outside with trays of coffee, tea, and iced champagne. Ordinarily this was the kind of event Cassandra would have enjoyed to no end. She loved a nice breakfast, especially when there was a little something sweet to finish off, and charlotte russe was one of her favorite desserts. However, she was in no mood to make small talk with anyone. Besides, she'd eaten far too many sweets lately... the extra jam tart at teatime yesterday, and all the fruit ices between dinner courses last night, and that entire éclair, stuffed with rich almond cream and roofed with a crisp layer of icing. And one of the little decorative marzipan flowers from a platter of puddings.

Here's the truth my mother won't speak: if I hadn't known what I wanted, and worked out how to get it, I wouldn't have got anywhere. I had to learn how to get my way. Because my mother wasn't going to be any bloody help. I look at her, in her frothy black chiffon - like a negative of a wedding gown - and her glittering earrings, holding her sparkling glass of champagne, and I think: You don't get this. This isn't your moment. You didn't create it. I created it in spite of you. I grip the edge of the table with one hand, hard, anchoring myself. With the other I pick up my glass of champagne and take a long swig. 'Say you're proud of me', I think. And it will just about make everything all right. 'Say it, and I'll forgive you.' "This might sound a little immodest," Mum says, touching her breastbone. "But I have to say that I'm proud of myself, for having brought up such a strong-willed, independent daughter." And she does a little bow, as though to an adoring audience. Everyone claps dutifully as she sits down. I'm trembling with anger. I look at the champagne flute in my hand. I imagine, for one delicious, delirious second, smashing it against the table, bringing everything to a halt. I take a deep breath. And instead I rise to make my own toast. I will be gracious, grateful, affectionate.