by Ree Drummond
It was a terrible time to be thinking about hors d’oeuvres.
Still, I came to find solace in all the details of wedding planning. A hopeless food lover, the reception menu was high on my list of Things to Do That Distract Me from Mom and Dad’s Crumbling Marriage, and it was proving to be tricky. Because along with the neurologists and corporate officers who’d be attending the country club bash, there would also be cowboys…and handymen…and farmers…and large-animal vets—none of whom, I reckoned, would appreciate being rewarded for their long drive to my hometown with crudités and brie en croûte.
On the other hand, it was to be a formal affair, complete with engraved Crane invitations and ethereal white tulle. I was fairly certain cocktail wieners in barbecue sauce wouldn’t be enough. Plus, I’d always loved beautiful, elegant food, and thanks to a teenage fixation on the 1980s-era Martha Stewart, I knew precisely what kind of wedding food would satisfy me. Stuffed cherry tomatoes. Cucumbers with smoked salmon mousse. Caviar. Herbed cheeses and radishes. Stuffed snow peas. Marinated chicken skewers. Cold shrimp as far as the eye could see. The middle child in me had to find a way to satisfy both sides. The reception had to be a nod to both my and Marlboro Man’s backgrounds…and not one of the six hundred guests could be left behind.
Marlboro Man was out of town, on a trip to the southern part of the state, looking at farm ground, the night I began conceiving of the best way to arrange the reception menu. I was splayed on my bed in sweats, staring at the ceiling, when suddenly I gave birth to The Idea: one area of the country club would be filled with gold bamboo chairs, architecturally arranged orchids and roses, and antique lace table linens. Violins would serenade the guests as they feasted on cold tenderloin and sipped champagne. Martha Stewart would be present in spirit and declare, “This is my daughter, whom I love. In her I am well pleased.”
Martha’s third cousin Mabel would prefer the ballroom on the other end of the club, however, which would be the scene of an authentic chuck wagon spread: barbecue, biscuits and gravy, fried chicken, Coors Light. Blue-checkered tablecloths would adorn the picnic tables, a country band would play “All My Exes Live in Texas,” and wildflowers would fill pewter jugs throughout the room.
I smiled, imagining the fun. In one fell swoop, our two worlds—Marlboro Man’s country and my country club—would collide, combine, and unite in a huge, harmonious feast, one that would officially usher in my permanent departure from city life, cappuccino, and size 6 clothes.
While I was deep in my fantasy, in yet another episode of perfect timing, Marlboro Man called from the road.
“Hey,” he said, the mid-1990s spotty cell phone service only emphasizing the raspy charm of his voice.
“Oh! Just the person I want to talk to,” I said, grabbing paper and a pen. “I have a question for you—”
“I bought your wedding present today,” Marlboro Man interrupted.
“Huh?” I said, caught off guard. “Wedding present?” For someone steeped in the proper way of doing things, I was ashamed that a wedding gift for Marlboro Man had never crossed my mind.
“Yep,” he said. “And you need to hurry up and marry me so I can give it to you.”
I giggled. “So…what is it?” I asked. I couldn’t even imagine. I hoped it wasn’t a tennis bracelet.
“You have to marry me to find out,” he answered.
Yikes. What was it? Wasn’t the wedding ring itself supposed to be the present? That’s what I’d been banking on. What would I ever get him? Cuff links? An Italian leather briefcase? A Montblanc pen? What do you give a man who rides a horse to work every day?
“So, woman,” Marlboro Man said, changing the subject, “what did you want to ask me?”
“Oh!” I said, focusing my thoughts back to the reception. “Okay, I need you to name your absolute favorite foods in the entire world.”
He paused. “Why?”
“I’m just taking a survey,” I answered.
“Hmmm…” He thought for a minute. “Probably steak.”
Duh. “Well, besides steak,” I said.
“Steak,” he repeated.
“And what else?” I asked.
“Well…steak is pretty good,” he answered.
“Okay,” I responded. “I understand that you like steak. But I need a little more to work with here.”
“But why?” he asked.
“Because I’m taking a survey,” I repeated.
Marlboro Man chuckled. “Okay, but I’m really hungry right now, and I’m three hours from home.”
“I’ll factor that in,” I said.
“Biscuits and gravy…tenderloin…chocolate cake…barbecue ribs…scrambled eggs,” he said, rattling off his favorite comfort foods.
Bingo, I thought, smiling.
“Now, hurry up and marry me,” he commanded. “I’m tired of waiting on you.”
I loved it when he was bossy.
I lay there on my bed, giddy over the new direction the reception had taken—it would be the perfect bridge between the old life and the new, the perfect symbol of the best of both our worlds. It might be hokey. It might be a raging success. Either way, it didn’t matter. I pictured the laughter of the guests in attendance, the band playing their banjos, the champagne. I closed my eyes and saw the gold bamboo chairs and the tall, stalky flower arrangements…and I licked my lips when I imagined the stuffed snow peas. I’d always loved stuffed snow peas. Martha had done that to me.
Filled with energy, I hopped off the bed and headed downstairs to share the new ideas with my mom, who’d been toggling between enthusiastically involved and hopelessly distracted when it came to my wedding plans. I knew she’d get excited about this tweak in the plans, though; for all my mom’s current angst, she was, at her core, fun-loving and adventurous. But as usual, when I arrived at the bottom of the stairs I saw that the door leading to the den was closed. I could hear the hushed tones of my parents’ strained conversation—the subject of which, obviously, had to do with the state of their crumbling marriage. And who was responsible for what.
The stuffed snow peas would have to wait.
Not wanting any part of it, I turned on my heels and headed back up to my bedroom—the only drama-free zone in the entire house. It was too late for me to leave the house to see a movie or go get coffee or visit a bookstore, and my regular safe haven—my cowboy—was driving a long stretch of highway in the middle of Oklahoma. Lacking any other appealing option, I drew myself a deep, hot bath and filled it with an excessive amount of aromatherapy bubbles. Climbing in, I rested my head against the back of the tub, closed my eyes, inhaled the rosemary and lavender, and did everything within my power to shake the oppressive feeling that my parents’ situation was going to get a lot worse. It hadn’t improved at all in the months since Marlboro Man had proposed, and the only question remaining was whether disaster would strike before, during, or after the wedding ceremony.
I sat there in the warm, bubbly bathtub that night, trying to massage the building knots out of my stiff shoulders and doing my best to keep myself from completely losing my mind.
MARLBORO MAN picked me up the next evening, exactly one month before our wedding day. Our evening apart had made the heart grow fonder, and we greeted each other with a magnificently tight embrace. It filled my soul, the way his arms gripped me…how he almost always used his superior strength to lift me off the ground. A wannabe strong, independent woman, I was continually surprised by how much I loved being swept, quite literally, off my feet.
We drove straight into the sunset, arriving on his ranch just as the sky was changing from salmon to crimson, and I gasped. I’d never seen anything so brilliant and beautiful. The inside of Marlboro Man’s pickup glowed with color, and the tallgrass prairie danced in the evening breeze. Things were just different in the country. The earth was no longer a mere place where I lived—it was alive. It had a heartbeat. The sight of the country absolutely took my breath away—the vast expanse of the flat pastures, the endless
view of clouds. Being there was a spiritual experience.
I looked around and realized we were headed down a different road than Marlboro Man would normally take. “I have to give you your wedding present,” Marlboro Man said before I could ask where we were going. “I can’t wait a month before I give it to you.”
Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. “But…,” I stammered. “I haven’t gotten yours yet.”
Marlboro Man clasped my hand, continuing to look forward at the road. “Yes you have,” he said, bringing my hand to his lips and turning me to a pool of melted butter right in his big Ford truck.
We wound through several curves in the road, and I tried to discern whether I’d been there before. My sense of direction was lousy; everything looked the same to me. Finally, just as the sun was dipping below the horizon, we came upon an old barn. Marlboro Man pulled up beside it and parked.
Confused, I looked around. He got me a barn? “What…what are we doing here?” I asked.
Marlboro Man didn’t answer. Instead, he just turned off the pickup, turned to me…and smiled.
“What is it?” I asked as Marlboro Man and I exited the pickup and walked toward the barn.
“You’ll see,” he replied. He definitely had something up his sleeve.
I was nervous. I always hated opening gifts in front of the person who gave them to me. It made me uncomfortable, as if I were sitting in a dark room with a huge spotlight shining on my head. I squirmed with discomfort. I wanted to turn and run away. Hide in his pickup. Hide in the pasture. Lie low for a few weeks. I didn’t want a wedding present. I was weird that way.
“But…but…,” I said, trying to back out. “But I don’t have your wedding present yet.” As if anything would have derailed him at that point.
“Don’t worry about that,” Marlboro Man replied, hugging me around the waist as we walked. He smelled so good, and I inhaled deeply. “Besides, we can share this one.”
That’s strange, I thought. Any fleeting ideas I’d had that he’d be giving me a shiny bracelet or sparkly necklace or other bauble suddenly seemed far-fetched. How could he and I share the same tennis bracelet? Maybe he got me one of those two-necklace sets, the ones with the halved hearts, I thought, and he’ll wear one half and I’ll wear the other. I couldn’t exactly picture it, but Marlboro Man had never been above surprising me.
Then again, we were walking toward a barn.
Maybe it was a piece of furniture for the house we’d been working on—a love seat, perhaps. Oh, wouldn’t that be the most darling of wedding gifts? A love seat? I’ll bet it’s upholstered in cowhide, I thought, or maybe some old western brocade fabric. I’d always loved those fabrics in the old John Wayne movies. Maybe its legs are made of horns! It just had to be furniture. Maybe it was a new bed. A bed on which all the magic of the world would take place, where our children—whether one or six—would be conceived, where the prairie would ignite in an explosion of passion and lust, where….
Or maybe it’s a puppy.
Oh, yes! That has to be it, I told myself. It’s probably a puppy—a pug, even, in tribute to the first time I broke down and cried in front of him! Oh my gosh—he’s replacing Puggy Sue, I thought. He waited until we were close enough to the wedding, but he doesn’t want the pup to get any bigger before he gives it to me. Oh, Marlboro Man…you may have just zeroed in on what could possibly be the single most romantic thing you ever could have done for me. In my wildest dreams, I couldn’t have imagined a more perfect love gift. A pug would be the perfect bridge between my old world and my new, a permanent and furry reminder of my old life on the golf course. As Marlboro Man slid open the huge barn doors and flipped on the enormous lights mounted to the beams, my heart began beating quickly. I couldn’t wait to smell its puppy breath.
“Happy wedding,” he said sweetly, leaning against the wall of the barn and motioning toward the center with his eyes. My eyes adjusted to the light…and slowly focused on what was before me.
It wasn’t a pug. It wasn’t a diamond or a horse or a shiny gold bangle…or even a blender. It wasn’t a love seat. It wasn’t a lamp. Sitting before me, surrounded by scattered bunches of hay, was a bright green John Deere riding lawn mower—a very large, very green, very mechanical, and very diesel-fueled John Deere riding lawn mower. Literally and figuratively, crickets chirped in the background of the night. And for the hundredth time since our engagement, the reality of the future for which I’d signed up flashed in front of me. I felt a twinge of panic as I saw the tennis bracelet I thought I didn’t want go poof, disappearing completely into the ether. Would this be how presents on the ranch would always be? Does the world of agriculture have a different chart of wedding anniversary presents? Would the first anniversary be paper…or motor oil? Would the second be cotton or Weed Eater string?
I would add this to the growing list of things I still needed to figure out.
Chapter Nineteen
A FISTFUL OF ELMER’S
ONCE THE wedding gift was out of the way, Marlboro Man and I had to check one last item off our list before we entered the Wedding Zone: premarital counseling. It was a requirement of the Episcopal church, these one-hour sessions with the semiretired interim priest who led our church at the time. Logically, I understood the reasoning behind the practice of premarital discussions with a man of the cloth. Before a church sanctions a marriage union, it wants to ensure the couple grasps the significance and gravity of the (hopefully) eternal commitment they’re making. It wants to give the couple things to think about, ideas to ponder, matters to get straight. It wants to make sure it’s not sending two young lovers into what could be an avoidable domestic catastrophe. Logically, I grasped the concept.
Practically, however, it was an uncomfortable hour of sitting across from a sweet minister who meant well and asked the right questions, but who had clearly run out of juice in the zest-for-marriage department. It was emotional drudgery for me; not only did I have to rethink obvious things I’d already thought about a thousand times, but I also had to watch Marlboro Man, a quiet, shy country boy, assimilate and answer questions put to him by a minister he’d only recently met on the subject of love, romance, and commitment, no less. Though he was polite and reverent, I felt for him. These were things cowboys rarely talked about with a third party.
“What would you do if Ree became gravely ill?” Father Johnson asked Marlboro Man.
“Well, sir,” Marlboro Man replied, “I’d take care of her.”
“Who’s going to do the cooking in your household?”
Marlboro Man smiled. “Ree’s a great cook,” he answered. I sat up proudly in my chair, trying not to remember the Linguine with Clam Sauce and the Marinated Flank Steak and whatever other well-intentioned meals I’d massacred early in our relationship.
“What about the dishes?” Father Johnson continued, channeling Gloria Steinem. “See yourself helping out there?”
Marlboro Man scratched his chin and paused. “Sure,” he said. “Honestly, these aren’t really things we’ve sat down and talked about.” His voice was kind. Polite.
I wanted to crawl in a hole. I wanted to have my gums scraped. I wanted to go fight that huge prairie fire from a while back. Anything would be better than this.
“Have you talked about how many children you’d like to have?”
“Yes, sir,” Marlboro Man said.
“And?” Father Johnson prodded.
“I’d like to have six or so,” Marlboro Man answered, a virile smile spreading across his face.
“And what about Ree?” Father Johnson asked.
“Well, she says she’d like to have one,” Marlboro Man said, looking at me and touching my knee. “But I’m workin’ on her.”
Father Johnson wrinkled his brow.
“How do you and Ree resolve conflict?”
“Well…,” Marlboro Man replied. “To tell you the truth, we haven’t really had much conflict to speak of. We get along pretty darn well.”
Fathe
r Johnson looked over his glasses. “I’m sure you can think of something.” He wanted some dirt.
Marlboro Man tapped his boot on the sterile floor of Father Johnson’s study and looked His Excellence straight in the eye. “Well, she fell off her horse once when we went riding together,” he began. “And that upset her a little bit. And a while back, I dragged her to a fire with me and it got a little dicey….” Marlboro Man and I looked at each other. It was the largest “conflict” we’d had, and it had lasted fewer than twelve hours.
Father Johnson looked at me. “How did you deal with that, Ree?”
I froze. “Uh…uh…” I tapped my Donald Pliner mule on the floor. “I told him how I felt. And after that it was fine.”
I hated every minute of this. I didn’t want to be examined. I didn’t want my relationship with Marlboro Man to be dissected with generic, one-size-fits-all questions. I just wanted to drive around in his pickup and look at pastures and curl up on the couch with him and watch movies. That had been going just fine for us—that was the nature of our relationship. But Father Johnson’s questioning was making me feel defensive, as if we were somehow neglecting our responsibility to each other if we weren’t spending every day in deep, contemplative thought about the minutiae of a future together. Didn’t a lot of that stuff just come naturally over time? Did it really serve a purpose to figure it out now?
But Father Johnson’s interrogation continued:
“What do you want for your children?”
“Have you talked about budgetary matters?”
“What role do your parents play in your life?”
“Have you discussed your political preferences? Your stances on important issues? Your faith? Your religion?”
And my personal favorite:
“What are you both going to do, long term, to nurture each other’s creativity?”
