omigod. My house was absolutely trashed.

That's how I knew everybody had a good time. For people like me, who tend to be a little picky about details, absolute chaos and bedlam is vital to every foremost effort. When I clean my house, first I create an even bigger mess than I started with; I create an absolute lollapalooza of a mess, then I put it all back together in the precise order that pleases and comforts me. So in getting ready for this party for forty people whom I do not know, save for the honored and the honored future in-laws, nothing else would do but to pull all the closets apart and strew the contents up and down the halls, to polish every piece of silver I own, to carefully dust and wash the glass of every piece of art I own, then level each, and to rethink every single flower pot, vase and floral receptacle in this house and on the front porch. No small order, all of that. But it makes me happy. So it was with this party. It was a race to the finish, vanquishing winter with its dark and dust, dullness and dreary and cold, cold, stillness.

And when I was done, the house at Bellemaison became spring with flowers, colors, aromas and light in the sunny afternoon air. I looked around when the party was at a high pitch and saw the furniture and floors littered with silver punch cups, toilet paper, ribbons, handbags and smiles, smiles, smiles, and I was ever happier. You have to make a real mess to get a real result. So it was all worth it because the O'Doherty Girls laughed and laughed, kept me laughing and left here laughing still, as they scampered down the driveway into the spring evening. It was my pleasure to please and serve them and the bridal shower left me content and grateful for such darling, honest people in my life.

Breanne is a lithesome Goddess. She is generous, beautiful and has flawless manners. Her two sisters are older and younger versions of her and the three of them would be quite intimidating in their beauty and grace, if they were not such compassionate, caring people. Breanne came to me in a moment of poise and care and said JBelle, there's a squirrel on the front porch eating the cake. I SHRIEKED, with absolutely no poise, at that damn razorback who has eaten probably about 2000 Apricot Beauty tulip bulbs over the last four years, ran out to the front porch to my luscious blueandwhite dottedswiss cake on my darling white wrought iron tea cart, all set up up for tea. The little porker wasn't even happy with a swipe on the corner. His grubby footprints led to the center of the cake, where he dug a divot of blue butter cream frosting, narrowly missing the B. He disappeared by the time I got there, clearly holding the higher IQ in the battle of wits that is him and me. I was horrified about serving guests cake with rodent germs but Breanne was worried about me and my parade, hoping the squirrel hadn't sent too much rain. And so in the end, that's what makes her gorgeous: her heart. It's ginormous.

It was a afternoon of girlfriends--love, care and laughter--in a springtime that you only get in the NorthLand. Viva la pedicures. Viva la wedding and bridesmaid dresses. Viva la dishes and linen. Viva la recipes. Viva la plans. Hopes. All of it. Viva.la.all.of.it.


JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA