Groom To Be Cake Quotes

Never my favorite part of the night, the bride and groom smearing cake on each other's face.I'm with Frankie; it can't be an auspicious start.

He told me yesterday that weddings should be individual celebrations of a couple’s relationship, ideally with just the bride and groom and a humanist minister. Everything else is merely social pressure to eat tiny cakes.

Happy smiles were shared between the bride and groom, but it was the cake their guests remembered - the vanilla custard filling, the buttercream finish, the slight taste of raspberries that had surely been added to the batter. No one brought home any slices of leftover cake to place under their pillow, hoping to dream of their future mate; instead, the guests… ate the whole cake and then had dreams of eating it again. After this wedding unmarried women woke in the night with tears in their eyes, not because they were alone, but because there wasn't any cake left.

Sometimes it is not the marriage that is boring, it’s your life. ⁣

The overhead lights hit the Serch Bythol sculpture on the utmost tier, the sugar crystals shimmering and dancing like a cascade of diamonds. The planes of the cake beneath were clean and crisp, and the sugar-stained glass panels caught every light on the ceiling, throwing back shimmering rainbow rays. Sylvie was most proud of the silhouette that circled the middle stained-glass tiers--the skylines of London and Johnny's family estate in Lancashire. Only when viewed at close range did a second, hidden skyline emerge from within the reflective depths---the fantasy lands of I, Slayer, complete with a tiny, flying dragon. It was a work of art---and even now, she was taken aback by the level of harmony they had achieved, twinning together two very different styles. In honor of the union of two very different people, whose lives would hopefully interlock just as successfully.

I looked over at Jason. “Want some?” He grinned. “Sure.” I pulled some off, held it out to him. He opened his mouth slightly, a challenge in his eyes. I don’t know why I’d thought he’d take it from me. Finally, he said, “I don’t want to get my fingers sticky.” Oh, right. I got really warm, but I pushed the cotton candy into his mouth--and couldn’t help thinking about a bride shoving the cake into the groom’s mouth. Jason’s lips barely touched my fingers as his mouth closed, and I pulled back, but I got that much hotter, had felt his breath skim across my knuckles. It was so intimate, so personal, like something you’d do with someone you had a serious crush on. Much more intimate than spooning him ice cream. With ice cream, there was the distance of the spoon, not to mention that it was cold. “I haven’t had cotton candy in forever,” he said. “I’d forgotten how…sugary it is.” “It’s pure sugar.” “I wonder who invented it.” “I think it was a dentist.” He laughed, a laugh that revealed his perfect smile, his perfect teeth. “I’ll bet you’re right.

We danced to John Michael Montgomery’s “I Swear.” We cut the seven-tiered cake, electing not to take the smear-it-on-our-faces route. We visited and laughed and toasted. We held hands and mingled. But after a while, I began to notice that I hadn’t seen any of the tuxedo-clad groomsmen--particularly Marlboro Man’s friends from college--for quite some time. “What happened to all the guys?” I asked. “Oh,” he said. “They’re down in the men’s locker room.” “Oh, really?” I asked. “Are they smoking cigars or something?” “Well…” He hesitated, grinning. “They’re watching a football game.” I laughed. “What game are they watching?” It had to be a good one. “It’s…ASU is playing Nebraska,” he answered. ASU? His alma mater? Playing Nebraska? Defending national champions? How had I missed this? Marlboro Man hadn’t said a word. He was such a rabid college football fan, I couldn’t believe such a monumental game hadn’t been cause to reschedule the wedding date. Aside from ranching, football had always been Marlboro Man’s primary interest in life. He’d played in high school and part of college. He watched every televised ASU game religiously--for the nontelevised games, he relied on live reporting from Tony, his best friend, who attended every game in person. “I didn’t even know they were playing!” I said. I don’t know why I shouldn’t have known. It was September, after all. But it just hadn’t crossed my mind. I’d been a little on the busy side, I guess, getting ready to change my entire life and all. “How come you’re not down there watching it?” I asked. “I didn’t want to leave you,” he said. “You might get hit on.” He chuckled his sweet, sexy chuckle. I laughed. I could just see it--a drunk old guest scooting down the bar, eyeing my poufy white dress and spouting off pickup lines: You live around here? I sure like what you’re wearing… So…you married? Marlboro Man wasn’t in any immediate danger. Of that I was absolutely certain. “Go watch the game!” I insisted, motioning downstairs. “Nah,” he said. “I don’t need to.” He wanted to watch the game so badly I could see it in the air. “No, seriously!” I said. “I need to go hang with the girls anyway. Go. Now.” I turned my back and walked away, refusing even to look back. I wanted to make it easy on him. I wouldn’t see him for over an hour. Poor Marlboro Man. Unsure of the protocol for grooms watching college football during their wedding receptions, he’d darted in and out of the locker room for the entire first half. The agony he must have felt. The deep, sustained agony. I was so glad he’d finally joined the guys.

What’ll it be?” Steve asked me, just days after our wedding. “Do we go on the honeymoon we’ve got planned, or do you want to go catch crocs?” My head was still spinning from the ceremony, the celebration, and the fact that I could now use the two words “my husband” and have them mean something real. The four months between February 2, 1992--the day Steve asked me to marry him--and our wedding day on June 4 had been a blur. Steve’s mother threw us an engagement party for Queensland friends and family, and I encountered a very common theme: “We never thought Steve would get married.” Everyone said it--relatives, old friends, and schoolmates. I’d smile and nod, but my inner response was, Well, we’ve got that in common. And something else: Wait until I get home and tell everybody I am moving to Australia. I knew what I’d have to explain. Being with Steve, running the zoo, and helping the crocs was exactly the right thing to do. I knew with all my heart and soul that this was the path I was meant to travel. My American friends--the best, closest ones--understood this perfectly. I trusted Steve with my life and loved him desperately. One of the first challenges was how to bring as many Australian friends and family as possible over to the United States for the wedding. None of us had a lot of money. Eleven people wound up making the trip from Australia, and we held the ceremony in the big Methodist church my grandmother attended. It was more than a wedding, it was saying good-bye to everyone I’d ever known. I invited everybody, even people who may not have been intimate friends. I even invited my dentist. The whole network of wildlife rehabilitators came too--four hundred people in all. The ceremony began at eight p.m., with coffee and cake afterward. I wore the same dress that my older sister Bonnie had worn at her wedding twenty-seven years earlier, and my sister Tricia wore at her wedding six years after that. The wedding cake had white frosting, but it was decorated with real flowers instead of icing ones. Steve had picked out a simple ring for me, a quarter carat, exactly what I wanted. He didn’t have a wedding ring. We were just going to borrow one for the service, but we couldn’t find anybody with fingers that were big enough. It turned out that my dad’s wedding ring fitted him, and that’s the one we used. Steve’s mother, Lyn, gave me a silk horseshoe to put around my wrist, a symbol of good luck. On our wedding day, June 4, 1992, it had been eight months since Steve and I first met. As the minister started reading the vows, I could see that Steve was nervous. His tuxedo looked like it was strangling him. For a man who was used to working in the tropics, he sure looked hot. The church was air-conditioned, but sweat drops formed on the ends of his fingers. Poor Steve, I thought. He’d never been up in front of such a big crowd before. “The scariest situation I’ve ever been in,” Steve would say later of the ceremony. This from a man who wrangled crocodiles! When the minister invited the groom to kiss the bride, I could feel all Steve’s energy, passion, and love. I realized without a doubt we were doing the right thing.

Most girls dream of a bell-shaped wedding gown, a towering cake, and a groom who adores her. I never think of any of that. Well, maybe the groom, but mostly I fantasize about the smell. My bouquet will consist of only Granada buds, sweet sunset-colored roses, and the church will be filled with Oklahomas, Elles, and Memorials. Those with allergies need not attend. But now with the wedding a reality, I think I’ll bring dead roses. And revel in their stench.

Three square tiers of hazelnut cake filled with caramel mousse and sliced poached pears, sealed with vanilla buttercream scented with pear eau-de-vie. It's covered in a smooth expanse of ivory fondant decorated with what appear to be natural branches of pale green dogwood but are actually gum paste and chocolate, and with almost-haphazard sheer spheres of silvery blown sugar, as if a child came by with a bottle of bubbles and they landed on the cake. On the top, in lieu of the traditional bride and groom, is a bottle of Dexter's favorite Riesling in a bow tie and a small three-tier traditional wedding cake sporting a veil, both made out of marzipan. It took me the better part of the last three weeks to make this cake. Not to mention the loaves of banana bread, the cellophane bags of pine nut shortbread cookies, and the little silver boxes of champagne truffles in the gift bags. And the vanilla buttermilk panna cottas we're serving with balsamic-macerated berries as the pre-dessert before the cake. And the hand-wrapped caramels and shards of toffee and dark-chocolate-covered candied ginger slices that will be served with the coffee.

The Argument of his Book I sing of Brooks, of Blossomes, Birds, and Flowers: Of April, May, of June, and July-Flowers. I sing of May-poles, Hock-carts, Wassails, Wakes, Of Bride-grooms, Brides, and of their Bridall-cakes. I write of Youth, of Love, and have Accesse By these, to sing of cleanly-Wantonnesse. I sing of Dewes, of Raines, and piece by piece Of Balme, of Oyle, of Spice, and Amber-Greece. I sing of Times trans-shifting; and I write How Roses first came Red, and Lillies White. I write of Groves, of Twilights, and I sing The Court of Mab, and of the Fairie-King. I write of Hell; I sing (and ever shall) Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all.

There was NO WAY we were just sitting there in the library like a bride and groom sharing a piece of wedding cake!

He’d been a perfect gentleman all evening. She was beginning to wonder why he’d gotten on her nerves before. “Thanks for not shoving the cake in my face,” she said. His lips tilted. “Wouldn’t dream of it.

Would you be very offended if I begged off our cribbage match?” There was only so much fraternal cross-examination a man could politely bear, after all. “Of course I don’t mind. I’ll trounce Belmont instead, or the grooms, or maybe just cadge a nap under some obliging tree. Go to your lady. It’s clear you were pining for her all through lunch.” Val scrubbed a hand over his face. “Was I that obvious?” “A brother far from home suspects these things. There’s cake in the breadbox. You might take her some.” “One piece and one fork.” “Well done.

Make mine water, with a lemon.” She looked at Maddy. “I have a wedding dress to squeeze into.” Kerry rolled her eyes. “Don’t you dare say anything that has the word bride, bridal, wedding, or--God help us--dress, in her general direction. In fact, you can add cake, announcements, seating charts--” Maddy laughed as Fiona sat straighter, her face lighting up as she said, “Oh, seating charts! Right! With all that happened on the dock, I almost forgot to ask. With Cooper staying on, I’d like to invite him to the wedding. So we’ll need to reconfigure a few things.” Kerry didn’t even want to begin to contemplate what it would be like to watch her sister say her I dos, then smash wedding cake all over the face of her ridiculously handsome and adorable groom, all with Cooper and his marriage proposal seated anywhere in the same room with her. No. Uh-uh. “See what I mean?” she said sweetly to Maddy before sliding her sister’s lemon water in front of her.

She had not been sure what to wear—a classic peach maid of honor dress or a black leather corset. Her compromise: peach leather with a fringed hem, sleeveless so as to display arms with the relative dimensions and consistency of marble columns on a Georgian mansion. Big Cyndi’s hair was done up in a mauve Mohawk and pinned on the top was a little bride-and-groom cake decoration.

Pork vindaloo?" "Extra hot." "Jalebis?" "Of course." "I want all the food we had at your dad's house the other night and at the Dosa Palace, plus Priya's cake." "Done." "And no Shark Stew." "I'll do my best." "What about the crunchy treats?" "Kurkure Masala Munch? You'd be the groom. You could have as much as you could eat." He lifted an eyebrow. "I can eat a lot." "You won't be disappointed.

Most girls dream of a stunning wedding gown, a towering cake, and a groom who adores her. I never think of any of that. Well, maybe the groom, but mostly I fantasize about the smell. My bouquet will consist of only Granada buds, sweet sunset-colored roses, and the church will be filled with Oklahomas, Elles, and Memorials. Those with allergies need not attend. But now with the wedding a reality, I think I’ll bring dead roses. And revel in their stench.

The ceremony was beautiful, and as Hope and Mark stood beneath the towering floral arch, I couldn't help but think this scene truly looked like something out of a fairytale wedding. I even started feeling a little emotional--- until they started to recite their vows. Hope had told me earlier that she and Mark had written their own vows but failed to say more about them. At first, I thought my hearing had failed or I was having some kind of stroke. "What language is that?" I whispered to Dom from our perch in the back. "I... I actually think it's a pretend language," he replied. "What are you talking about?" I asked. "What do you mean pretend language?" "Do you have one of the programs with you?" he asked. "I bet there's a note in there about it." "No, but let me grab one." I didn't have to go far before I found the table at the back of the aisle and a basket full of programs. Each program was iridescent, in the shape of a flower with a beautiful lilac ribbon tied at the bottom. Under the order of service, a small line read: "The bride and groom have chosen to recite their own vows to one another in their favorite mythical tongue: Sindarin, one of the Elvish languages of Tolkein." My eyes were wide as saucers. Both the Elvish and English translations were printed below for everyone to follow along. Dom was going to lose it for sure. I quietly moved back to my seat next to Dom, who was still filming. "You're not going to believe what I'm about to tell you," I whispered as I casually fanned myself with the floral program. "What is it?" he asked. "It's Elvish," I said, holding back a laugh. "What?" he replied a little too loud. "Keep your voice down," I said, now pointing to the line in the program as proof. "Like, from The Lord of the Rings?" "I can't believe she didn't mention this to me earlier," I said. "But yes, I think so. This wedding is just full of surprises." "For once, I'm at a loss for words," Dom said. "They are clearly perfect for each other if this was something they both enjoyed. I bet they go to all those conferences for people who like fantasy stuff." "Maybe that's what they're doing for their honeymoon," I added. "I haven't asked them about it yet. If it is, I'm going to die." We were both holding back giggles at this point, but thankfully the couple finished reciting whatever it was they were saying to each other. I wondered whether we'd need to add subtitles to our video if we showed this part of the ceremony. As soon as the officiant pronounced them man and wife, the ceremony musicians played a set of chimes and the officiant asked for every guest to open the small box that was placed at the base of every bench. Inside each box was a butterfly that flew into the air and fluttered around the entire area above all the guests. I supposed that since real fairies weren't available, butterflies were the next best option. It was actually the perfect ending to this mythical ceremony, and everyone cheered in delight.

A white vintage A-line dress brushed just below her knees. Soft tendrils escaped her honey-colored bun, a grandmother's antique brooch the only accent. She clasped a loose pink bouquet in one hand, his hand in the other as they stood solemnly before the judge. Lush, wild clusters of pink peonies and white hydrangeas interspersed with soft dusty miller lined the aisle of simple white folding chairs. Two larger arrangements in antique silver urns flanked the couple. A single cellist sat in the corner of the room. All simple, but stunningly elegant. She couldn't stop smiling, and I realized I'd never seen her so at ease. They quietly said vows they wrote themselves. Our small crowd watched in happy silence. I tried not to shift too loudly, every movement echoing on the cold marble tiles. Someone sniffled. The sound reverberated in the cavernous space. The groom's mother caught me staring and winked at me across the room. This bride had sent me on quite a journey, forcing me to finally reckon with my past and my future. With my identity, even. It hadn't been easy, but I was grateful. I had no right to be here, but here I was. How I ended up here remained a bit of a mystery to me. Her forgiveness was simply a gift, one of the type I was gradually learning to receive. Maybe, just maybe, that could be me someday.

Next month? Please tell me they want a sponge cake.” “No, apparently the groom wants a traditional cake.” “Fruitcake should mature for six weeks or more,” Andy replied.

The pièce de résistance was the aisle and spot where the couple would say their vows. The aisle itself was made of white plexiglass, and above it were draped lush, dimensional bouquets of white flowers with silver and blue accents. At a glance, it looked like fluffy clouds in a blue sky. The planners had managed to rig up other mirrors at angles to reflect the afternoon sky outside of the hangar. It would be like Jacqueline was walking on clouds to meet her groom. My internal wedding planner gave a silent slow clap. Bravo.

I watch myself in the mirrored walls, veiled, slide down to sit on the floor and dial the reception planner. “Checking to make sure you’ve arranged a place card and seat for Simone.” “Yes,” she says. “I’ve put her with the table you’ve labeled ‘one-offs.’” “Perfect.” I hang up. The doors slide open. The concierge’s voice trails me out of the elevator. “I’ve heard it’s good luck to say a rosary on the morning of your wedding. I have one at my desk if you…” Minutes down the tree-lined road, the groom is being mimosa-toasted in his aunt Henshaw’s home. The cake is in the shape of the lake. In the morning we’ll return to the city. Alone in the room, I switch the channel to a newscast and slide under the folded coverlet. From the shelf of sleep, I hear local news stories. Henrietta has opened a store during an unfriendly economic climate. Despite everyone’s predictions, she is doing well. In global news, in towns around the world, people prepare for different holidays amid varied architecture.

I'd love to cook," she says, "but who has the time? I can't afford to spend two days baking a cake." The implication, of course, is that only unimportant people have that kind of time. Unimportant people like me. I wait for Adam to jump in and save me, but instead he shoves a forkful of lamb into his mouth and feigns deep interest in the contents of his dinner plate. For someone with Adam's political ambitions and penchant for friendly debate, I'm always amazed at the lengths he goes to avoid confrontation with his parents. "I have a full-time job," I say, offering Sandy a labored smile, "and somehow I manage." Sandy delicately places her fork on the table and interlaces her fingers. "I beg your pardon?" My cheeks flush, and all the champagne and wine rush to my head at once. "All I'm saying is... we make time for the things we actually want to do. That's all." Sandy purses her lips and sweeps her hair away from her face with the back of her hand. "Hannah, dear, I am very busy. I am on the board of three charities and am hosting two galas this year. It's not a matter of wanting to cook. I simply have more important things to do." For a woman so different from my own mother- the frosted, well-groomed socialite to my mother's mousy, rumpled academic- she and my mother share a remarkably similar view of the role of cooking in a modern woman's life. For them, cooking is an irrelevant hobby, an amusement for women who lack the brains for more high-powered pursuits or the money to pay someone to perform such a humdrum chore. Sandy Prescott and my mother would agree on very little, but as women who have been liberated from the perfunctory task of cooking a nightly dinner, they would see eye to eye on my intense interest in the culinary arts. Were I a stronger person, someone more in control of her faculties who has not drunk multiple glasses of champagne, I would probably let Sandy's remark go without commenting any further. But I cannot be that person. At least not tonight. Not when Sandy is suggesting, as it seems everyone does, that cooking isn't a priority worthy of a serious person's time. "You would make the time if you wanted to," I say. "But obviously you don't.

Three layers. Chocolate. Lemon. Pink champagne. The bride wanted lemons grown only in Sorrento. The groom claimed that chocolate made anywhere but Bruges was a waste of cacao. They both refused to consider any champagne but that of a bespoke label that produced only two hundred bottles of that variety a year, most of which were presold to a man in Chicago who, like most multimillionaires, didn't share his toys.

There's still a hefty amount of protocol, and even if the bride and groom look like they've respectively stepped out of The Nightmare Before Christmas and an Archie comic, the royal tradition is---" "The brandy-soaked, raisin spotted, intestine-clogging brick known as fruitcake," Pet interrupted. "Will look and taste the same whether it was made yesterday or two decades ago. And at no time during its lengthy existence will anyone want to eat it. I've told you, the bride likes chocolate cake. Specifically and vitally, she apparently likes your Death by Chocolate fudge cake. Very little about this couple conforms to royal standards, which is half the reason the bookies are already taking revolting odds on how long the marriage will last, or if they'll actually make it to the altar. Rose is infamously a strong personality and a massive pain in her family's arse. I guarantee that however she has to bend to tradition, she'll wrangle final say over details like the inside of her cake.