The Story of Us

I spent longer than I care to admit looking for the man who would one day become my husband. The waiting was long and admittedly, more complicated than it needed to be. The arrival surprisingly simple-like something I’d misplaced and suddenly found.

The date was Saturday October 26, 2019. I had spend the evening before preparing for a scone and jam making class at The Bakehouse Nola (what I affectionately called my New Orleans house on the weekends – I’d open the doors to ticketed strangers for baking classes and inevitable friendship).

The class went off without much fuss, the kind of quiet success I’d come to expect from The Bakehouse. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the side windows, catching my cat Tron in his usual sunspot vigil. Dough-encrusted bowls stacked precariously by the sink, a small mountain I knew I’d eventually have to conquer. My friend Abby lingered after the other guests had gone, her idea of help being less about scrubbing and more about keeping me company through the motions.

She asked me what I was doing that evening-the highly anticipated Saturday before Halloween in New Orleans. Now, New Orleans is the easiest city to fall into both plans and trouble. You can even plan your trouble if you’re meeting friends on say, Bourbon Street past 10pm. I had no plans. I wasn’t even sure I wanted any as I glanced over at my very comfortable couch, at the laptop resting on it, and thought of the Sunday post that needed doing.

I’m not even sure I answered Abby’s question before she invited me to a Halloween party she and her husband were going to later that evening. She said it was going to be fun and I was inclined to believe her. Besides, what stories was I going to have come Monday, staying at home on the Saturday before Halloween?

Now, what does one wear to a Halloween party with no costume and only a few hours’ notice? My answer was unorthodox but decisive: no pants. Which is to say, I arrived dressed as Tom Cruise in Risky Business, a character I only vaguely remembered, but felt confident enough to imitate in men’s briefs, tube socks, and knockoff Ray-Bans. It was a calculated kind of chaos, the sort of choice you make when you’re hoping to make just a little bit of trouble or a good story out of the weekend.

My friend Abby doesn’t believe in being fashionably late, so we were among the first to arrive at the party. As the room filled, it became painfully clear that Abby and her husband were the only two people I knew. I found myself lingering near the chicken nuggets, questioning my life choices—namely, leaving the house in no pants to mingle with strangers. I was half-listening to Abby’s side conversation, offering the occasional polite “mmhmm,” when I looked up and saw him.

Will was wearing jeans and boots, a wool shawl that was probably a blanket wrapped around his shoulder and, not a cowboy hat but a very stylish western hat all the same. Just the right amount of stubble and a jawline exactly like you’d imagine the silhouette of a cowboy at sunset. He was chatting with two gentlemen who, if memory serves, were much shorter than him, lending to this legendary quality I had build in my mind for him, instantly.

It wasn’t love at first sight. It was something quieter, more certain—a kind of recognition. Not the heart-stopping fireworks I’d given up on, but a steady pulse, a voice in my chest saying, There he is. There’s the man you’ve been looking for. Just like that.

Without taking my eyes off him, I nudged Abby and asked, “Who is that?” She studied him for a moment and said, “Oh, we work together. I haven’t seen him in years.”

I looked her dead in the eye and said, “I have to meet him.”

She understood the assignment and called her husband, who took the assignment of settling the two of us in a conversation very seriously.

An hour later, Will and I were sitting on an ottoman chatting. A few days later we were making dinner plans. A few weeks later he rode down my street on his motorcycle to pick me up for our first ride together.  Incidentally, he was so handsome I also had to pick my jaw up off the floor. A few months later he moved from New Orleans to Houston. A few years later I moved to Texas, too.

For the past five years, I’ve lived in the steady orbit of a love that feels like home—unshakable, true, and quietly extraordinary. It’s the kind of love you don’t so much find as recognize when it stands before you, wearing jeans, boots, and a western hat at a Halloween party.

A few years into our relationship, I decided it was time to learn how to ride a motorcycle myself. After countless rides spent looking over Will’s shoulder, I thought, how hard could it be? The answer revealed itself over the next six months as I dropped Will’s bike in empty school parking lots, snapping clutch levers, bruising my pride, and cried—there was a lot of crying. Learning, it turns out, is never not humbling.

Will was (let’s be honest, is) always there to pull me out from under the bike when I’ve tipped it over, offering me the quiet reassurance of his patience. He didn’t wince at the scratches I left on the frame (at least not in front of me) or the broken levers I handed him sheepishly. Instead, he mapped our rides, coached me through merging onto the interstate, and repeated the same gentle refrain: “Ride your ride.” When I’m following behind him, I know he’s clearing the way for both of us. If he changes lanes, I trust it’s safe to follow—though, of course, I still look myself. I’m reckless, not insane.

About a year into riding, we went out with one of Will’s more experienced motorcycle friends. Riding with the big dogs is not for the faint of heart. This man darted into intersections and across freeways like we were in a video game. Not once did he check his mirrors to see if I was keeping up. Somewhere on the freeway, trapped in the chaos of it all, I quietly unraveled inside my full-face helmet. At the first gas station, I pulled off the road, parked, and left my helmet on—partly for privacy and partly to contain my tears.

Will pulled up beside me, puzzled. “What’s wrong?”

Through muffled sobs, I blurted, “I can’t ride behind Paul! He doesn’t love me!”

Will laughed, a deep, easy sound that cut through my frustration like sunlight. I managed a watery smile, got myself together, and followed Will the rest of the way.  Turns out, you can ride with people who don’t love you but it surely doesn’t feel the same.

Months ago, Will and I decided to surprise our family with a wedding tucked into our Thanksgiving celebration. Neither of us wanted the spectacle of a year-long planning process, and it seemed a shame to waste a moment when so many of our loved ones would already be gathered at the big house in Bellville. In truth, most of the people who accepted our Thanksgiving invitations didn’t realize they were also RSVPing to our wedding.

I fussed more over the menu more than my dress. We served turkey smoked by our neighbor, macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, creamed spinach—familiar dishes for a family holiday, each one perfected with care. I wore a simple dress from Reformation, shoes from Everlane. Will, ever himself, wore a fresh Wrangler shirt.

My dad officiated the ceremony. Will’s mom played piano as I walked down the aisle. His dad gave a heartfelt reading. My mom—who knew exactly what to do before I even thought to ask—seemed to be everywhere at once, handling the kind of details only mothers can see. She and I wore matching pins from Aunt Mary, a quiet symbol of connection. My sister transformed into an event coordinator overnight, directing everyone with ease (or was that an iron fist?). My uncles cleaned a part of the house I hadn’t even considered, while my aunts ironed, washed, organized, and generally turned chaos into calm. The fact that we pulled this off was honestly, incredible!

Our friends Trevor and Sara drove in from New Orleans to take pictures, though I don’t think they realized they’d be working quite so hard when they agreed to spend Thanksgiving in Texas. Our rings were from Brilliance in Diamonds in New Orleans. My friend Suzonne made me the most stunning bouquet of paper magnolia flowers that I’ll treasure forever. Somehow, that added effort made the memories sweeter—the work blending seamlessly into joy.

The stuffing was served hot and that the Chocolate Stout Raspberry Cake I’d made as our wedding cake stayed safe in a neighbor’s fridge. We served lunch on the most stunning William Morris plates and vintage turkey plates borrow from Will’s aunt-tiny details that felt quietly extravagant, just like the day itself. What mattered most were the words Will and I said to each other, surrounded by the people who have loved us longest.

For those of you who have followed along since my Los Angeles days—through the burnt scones, the too-salty cookies, the moves, and the midnight epiphanies—thank you for being here. It’s strange and wonderful to think how much life has shifted since I first shared a recipe on this blog, yet the constant has always been connection: to food, to family, and to you. Marrying Will on Thanksgiving, surrounded by the people we love most, felt like the perfect way to celebrate love in its truest form: simple, shared, and deeply rooted. Life doesn’t always go as planned, but that’s where the magic finds us. Wherever you are, whatever you’re celebrating, I’m so grateful we get to share these moments together.