Trips Home

Trips Home
By Sara Cohn

I had to drive home for the weekend. Although I was to return to school on Monday, I didn’t have the slightest inclination to return to the small town where my family lived. Not that where I was coming from was any more interesting. Due to my father’s declining health, I had found myself taking this trip home from college more and more frequently. Growing up, I grew bored of the small, rural, culturally deprived town in the Midwest. I bolted to NYU after graduation. The busy, bustling, boisterous, always entertaining New York seemed like a perfect way to escape what I knew was happening to my father at home. Before I left, I found out that another girl, who was living in the dorm next to me, was about to take the trip home as well. I offered to drive, and she quickly accepted my offer. She was dying to go home, a feeling I could not relate to. Her family had arrived in the US from Korea six months ago. She was embarrassed by her inability to communicate with her peers, and seemed excited to return to familiar smells and sounds. Once in the car, I asked her if she had seen any movies lately.
No, she replied with deadpan indifference. I tried again,
Do you like the classes you’re taking?
No answer, only Silence. I looked out at the road, the landscape gradually becoming more and more desolate. It was as if it had been put in a washing machine and all of the excitement was being drained out of it like dye.
After two hours, I decided to stop at a coffee shop that I made habit of visiting on my way home. It was the only semblance of society and friendliness from here until I got home. She appeared tired, and I asked
Would you like a coffee?
She wouldn’t, but she would come in just the same. We walked into the hole-in-the-wall cozy coffee shop, overflowing with overstuffed chairs, occupied by over-caffeinated baristas and customers. The girl behind the counter had clearly consumed too many espressos as she asked
What could I get for you today?
A large mocha to go.
I had been here multiple times, always getting my same mocha made by the same over-caffeinated barista, and yet, she still doesn’t remember me. My father, dying of Alzheimer’s, hasn’t remembered much of anything lately either. As I ambled to the other end of the counter to wait for my drink, I thought of my father. He was the first person to give me coffee. My mother had been dead set against it. ‘It won’t hurt her!’ he lobbied in my favor. I was dying to have some. One day, my dad took me to a little coffee shop under the pretense that we were going to a movie. When we got there, he ordered a large black coffee for him and a small mocha for me. It tasted like a rotten hot chocolate. After all my pleading, I was determined to finish it anyway. Of course my mother found out. I had spilled a tiny drop on my new shorts. My taste for coffee grew and lasted longer than the stain.
The mocha came, and we returned to the car. With many hours remaining, I needed to try to talk again. I asked her why she was returning home. She replied that she needed to go to the restroom. Agitated, I pulled over at a small café at which I had once stopped, and then later regretted it for days. I went to the bathroom too, since we had stopped. When I left the stall, I did not see her. I felt anxious, like a mother who had lost her child. When I returned to the restaurant, I spotted her, reading something on the far wall. Smiling, I made my way through the tables of families eating badly scrambled eggs, drinking weak coffee. As I looked at the quote on the wall that she had been studying, it struck me that I had missed something about her. I had not yet seen the pensive, insightful aspect of her personality—and here it was written on a wall. “Happiness is not a place to arrive, but a manner of traveling” Mary Katherine Rubbok. She knew how both of us felt, despite barely having exchanged twenty words with me. Why are you going home, I tried again.
My father is sick. I don’t know the English word for what he has, but he doesn’t remember we are in America. Everyday we tell him, but he still thinks we are in Korea. “Why are these signs not in Korean?” he asks. Everyday we tell him, “It’s because we’re in America, Papa.” So, I go home for the weekend to see him. I want him to remember me.
We stood silent, still, in the middle of the grimy café. A tacky quote on the wall of this filthy place had brought together two unlikely strangers. ‘Doctors say he’s not well. I want him to remember me before he dies,’ she said, looking at the floor coated in grease. Dumbfounded, I told her we had to go. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about my father, who shared the same disease. Silence filled the car again, but this time it was different, more somber.
The inevitable question finally came up. Why are you going home? she asked. Voice quivering, I whispered
The same reason as you.
I hadn’t told anybody about my father being ill. I had come up with many excuses for my trips home: My cousin was getting married. My older brother’s wife just gave birth twins. None of the excuses bore any resemblance to the truth. Then we traveled in complete silence. We stopped as infrequently as we could. When we were approaching the neighborhood where I would be dropping her off, I felt the inclination for another coffee. I pulled into a Starbucks. While I was pulling the keys out of the ignition, she asked
What’s it like?
Being an American? I asked, surprised be her forthright nature.
No, the coffee. I’ve never had one. We moved to South Korea after the war, and my father had been a commander for the north, so we had to live in hiding. Coffee was a privilege we never got.
The amount of our conversation had just doubled, despite our many hours in the car together.
Would you like me to get you one, I asked
With a wry smile, a meek yes emerged from her thin lips. I figured after all of the hours we have spent in the car together, what would 30 more minutes matter? We sat in the hard chairs, and I missed the overstuffed couches of the previous coffee shop that was farther from home. I didn’t want to confront my dilapidated family- my mother who had become depressed as a result of my father’s degenerated health. While sipping on two mochas, we talked about New York and our childhood. Throughout the conversation, I kept thinking about my father. I knew he didn’t remember talking me to get me my first mocha, a seemingly unimportant to him that had meant so much to me. When our coffee was finished, we limped back to the car. I pull into her driveway in a neighborhood that looks like it’s a 1950’s movie set. After taking a deep breath, I back out her driveway and head to my home.
After the visit, I drove home and she took the train. We rarely saw each other at school. Months later, I found out that her father had died on that visit. My dad died a year after the visit, just before my graduation. I was distraught those final days. One day before graduation, while I was sitting in a café, she came up to me while I was reading the arts section, holding two mochas. She had the same dark, crescent moon shaped shadows under her eyes as me.
Do you want a coffee? She smiled the same, tired, wry smile. She nodded towards my mug, which had been empty for hours.
I would love one, I said.
She sat down in front of me. After a few minutes of silence, she reached for a section of the newspaper that was sitting on the table between us and began to read silently. When she got half way through the section, she looks up at me and nonchalantly questions, as if she is merely thinking out loud,
So how are you?
I wanted to just let go and have everything that was going through my head about my father and my still depressed mother flow out of my mouth and let it linger in the public. After months of not talking to anybody home, trying to keep a normal façade, I was tired. Our eyes met, and she knew everything. I told her anyways. She looked up at me, tired eyes behind half-moon shaped glasses, and leaned forward and hugged me. It was the first genuine hug I had received since my father’s funeral. I was tired of the ‘Poor baby’ and ‘Oh darling’ and faux hugs that were merely given out of custom. I melted in her arms out of gratitude for her demonstration of genuine care and empathy.

Warning! No More Naps!

‘Children, come listen to what I say.’ The scuffle of Stride- Rite sneakers and Ruby Slippers conglomerated in a half- moon around the man. In a fatigue tinted voice, he said meekly, ‘Next year, an important part of your day will be taken away.’ Ponderous thoughts 4 year old thoughts hung in the air, wondering what this man had to say. ‘As kindergarteners, you will have no Nap Time.’ High pitched gasps trailed those final two words as they disintegrated into oblivion. The young, brunette teacher in a brightly colored cherry-print dress busied herself with a drooping plant in the corner, trying to prevent the young children from seeing how sad she was for them. A faint trail of a simple, melancholy piano melody trailed from the music room filled with tired, nap-less older children down the hall. It laced itself through the woeful thoughts of the pre- kindergarteners dreading the next year of school. A black hole of sorts had sucked all of the joy from the once lively children with flashing sneakers and sparkly slippers. Now the shoes were just as lifeless as the plant in the corner that the teacher was unsuccessfully trying to revive. No sparkling, no flashing, no life.

‘When will we nap?’ they all wonder, thoughts synchronized. The first dark thought of their lives has permeated the innocence of the four year old mind. After playing the physically tiring tag, every child looks forward to the time to sleep in the cool, dark room before having to tackle the ever difficult challenge of practicing writing the alphabet. The children all fell to the lull of dreams about ballet and piano, soccer and baseball. Even when the dreams occasionally go sour and the children call for their parents, the children cannot fathom life without the gamble for whether the midday vacation would be good or bad. ‘Children, I know it’s hard to imagine a day without a nap, but do not fear! This danger next year, the tiring day with no time to rest will not harm you! You still have the rest of this year, and next year you will be big kids!’ The formerly exhausted voice suddenly was lifted with pure energy. As if taking the cue, the sun started to poke out from behind the domineering clouds. The children received a few jolts of joy, but were still in awe of growing up to a world in which there are no naps. ‘Children, I hate to be the one to let you know about this awful news, but I promise you will not even notice that it is missing.’
‘When I my puppy ran away, I noticed!’ piped Cleo Abrams. In a blue and white checkered dress and a brown stuffed dog, her eyes were plastered to the barer of bad news. Soon, all of the children began to chirp inquiries about the dreadful danger that had been eating at them. Genevieve Francisco cried with desperation ‘When my mommy goes away, I sleep with her bathroom, so I remember her. I notice that she’s gone!’ She held up a faded, light pink bathroom as proof, got up from her place in the crescent and ran to the teacher. The teacher held her close to her leg and reminded her that her mother would be coming home tomorrow.
‘Kids,’ the teacher said, voice steady now that the tears had dried, ‘it is your naptime now. Remember that you can still nap this year!’ Like the lotus in Egypt, the kids fled to their designated cots that were aligned along the opposite wall from where they had been sitting. 32 arms folded, 16 tired heads rested 32 arms, 16 rear ends in the air and 32 eyes quickly fluttered shut. Only an occasional whimper was released from 1 of the 16 pairs of lips. All of the dreams that day were nightmares. The children slept fairly lightly, eagerly hoping that they would be awoken from their common nightmare.
‘Thank you, Principal Nelson. I don’t know how I could have told them.’ The teacher looked wearily at the 16 sleeping bodies. Principal Nelson tried to wipe the sleep from his eyes, and replied ‘I never knew that telling 4 year olds that losing nap time would be so difficult.’
The six foot four man with a formidable presence turned and walked out of the room, back hunched after telling 16 kids that came up to his knees the danger of kindergarten.

Warning! No More Naps!

‘Children, come listen to what I say.’ The scuffle of Stride- Rite sneakers and Ruby Slippers conglomerated in a half- moon around the man with dark circles under his eyes. In a fatigue tinted voice, he said meekly, ‘Next year, an important part of your day will be taken away. Nap Time.’ High pitched gasps trailed those final two words as they disintegrated into oblivion. The young, brunette teacher in a brightly colored cherry-print dress busied herself with a drooping plant in the corner, trying to prevent the young children from seeing the tears flowing down her cheeks as well. A faint trail of a simple piano melody trailed from the music room filled with nap-less older children down the hall. It laced itself through the woeful thoughts of the pre kindergarteners dreading the next year of school. A black hole of sorts had sucked all of the joy from the once lively children with flashing sneakers and sparkly slippers. Now the shoes were just as lifeless as the plant in the corner that the teacher was unsuccessfully trying to revive. No sparkling, no flashing.

‘When will we rest?’ they all wonder in unison. The first dark thought of their lives has permeated the innocence of the four year old mind. After playing the physically tiring tag, every child looks forward to the time to sleep in the cool, dark room before having to tackle the ever difficult challenge of practicing writing the alphabet. The children all fell to the lull of dreams about ballet and piano, soccer and baseball. Even when the dreams occasionally go sour and become nightmares on cold, dark afternoons when the silent stillness smothers sound, and the children call for their parents, the children cannot fathom life without the gamble for whether the midday vacation would be good or bad.
‘Children, I know it’s hard to imagine a day without a nap, but do not fear! This danger next year, the tiring day with no time to rest will not harm you! You still have the rest of this year, and next year you will be big kids!’ The formerly tainted voice suddenly was lifted with pure energy. As if taking the cue, the sun started to poke out from behind the domineering clouds. The children received a few jolts of joy, but were still in awe of growing up to a world in which there are no naps. ‘Children, I hate to be the one to let you know about this awful news, but I promise you will not even notice that it is missing.’
‘When I lost my puppy, I noticed!’ piped Cleo Abrams. In a blue and white checkered dress and a brown stuffed dog, her eyes were plastered to the barer of bad news. Soon, all of the children began to chirp inquiries about the dreadful danger that had been eating at them. Genevieve Francisco cried with desperation ‘When my mommy goes away, I sleep with her bathroom, so I remember her. I notice that she’s gone!’ She held up a faded, light pink bathroom as proof, got up from her place in the crescent and ran to the teacher. The teacher held her close to her leg and reminded her that her mother would be coming home tomorrow.
‘Kids,’ the teacher said, voice steady now that the tears had dried, ‘it is your naptime now. Remember that you can still nap this year!’ Like the lotus in Egypt, the kids fled to their designated cots that were aligned along the opposite wall from where they had been sitting. 32 arms folded, 16 heads rested their tired heads on the arms, 16 rear ends in the air and 32 eyes quickly fluttered shut. Only an occasional whimper was released from 1 of the 16 pairs of lips. All of the dreams that day were nightmares. The children slept fairly lightly, eagerly hoping that they would be awoken from their common nightmare.

WA 6 Final Draft

I can read, yet illiteracy fills my life. Reading is what gave me joy and happiness. This everyday ability changed my life. It gave me hope in a time of fear. It gave me fear. A knock on our door in the Paris slums didn’t bring me out of my absorption in my new book. My siblings can’t read, I was the only one that bothered to pay attention in school. I only went to school for three years, since I was not the eldest child and a girl. Yet, I was the only one of my six siblings that enjoyed school. For my birthday each year, my siblings saved their measly salaries that they earned working at the hardware store and went to the bookstore. They picked out a book in which they liked the picture on the cover. An odd assortment of novels have flowed through our small cardboard box home as a result. Nevertheless, I have devoured each one. My mother yelled from outside “GENEVIÈVE, GET YOUR SKINNY REAR OUT HERE, NOW!”

Still stuck in gracefully strung words, I dawdled out to the front. A tall, well dressed man stood amidst broken beer bottle and my dwarfish mother in her worn light pink floral night dress. A beer battle identical to the product of the pieces on the ground was in my mother’s hand, nearly drained. The visitor’s appearance is not what made him stick out, it was his smell. He smelled of premium liquor, a smell I would grow to hate, while everything else reeked of cheap gas station beer. My mother finished off her beer with unusual vigor. Lacking her normal lethargic, slurred speech, she proudly announced that I was getting married to the sticking-out-like-a-sore-thumb man. I didn’t learn his name until our wedding night two weeks later.

Jack Lire was a prominent socialite who attended party after party, drank drink after drink, schmoozing with different important people, one after another. All of his money had come from inheritance after his father died. His father, Bartholomew Lire, had founded a motor company. Being a smart business man with a lot of luck, he sold the business right before it crashed, and ran off with the money. One year later, he was found dead, a bullet through his heart. Jack got the money and the story never hit the news stands. There was no semblance of my former life after I was thrown into the life of Jack Lire, the eccentric alcoholic. My family made of with a little money, which invariably went towards alcohol.

Jack didn’t just smell like liquor the day he came to claim me. He smelled like liquor every hour of everyday. Anger was the married companion to Jack’s drunken behavior. Alcohol and abuse were nothing new the elite class of Parisians. The people in Jack’s circle claimed to have never seen Jack without a mistress. He had been married five times; each wife had come to a mysterious fate. Their deaths never made it to the newspapers stands. Jack’s friends convince themselves that the five victims left Jack because of his drinking. Everyone knew that was not option. I looked at pictures that lined the house. Different women, different hair colors, different eye colors, all had the same desolate expression in their eyes. Stricken with fear, I retreated to my bed chamber, which was the size of my gloriously small home in the slums which I missed dearly now, to live in a fictional story.

Minutes later, Jack pushed through the door. His eyes were bloodshot, veins protruding from his forehead and balding head. “You can read?” he bellowed, words tinted with alcohol. Shaking under the comforter, I felt cemented to the bed. A chair hit the wall. The pieces lay on the floor, like the pieces to a child’s jigsaw. For fear I might end up like the chair and the previous five wives I simply nodded. As if an ice storm had come, the raging mania that had caused Jack to succumb to violence diminished. Suddenly serene, he sat down on the bed next to me. “Will you read to me?” he whispered so quietly I wasn’t sure if I had understood him. “I do not think you will like my book. It’s Little Women.” “Read anyway.” I feared another outburst, so I flipped the tired pages back to the beginning and read the story of the four sisters.

I would like to think that reading was the answer to everybody’s problems, just as it had been for me. Alcohol and violence still lingered in the mansion. The couple never left, but gradually became less and less intrusive. We still went to parties constantly, but they too became less of shock than the first few. Yet, I always felt out of place, even at the mansion. I never called it home and still occasionally yearned for the slums and my family, who I hadn’t seen in years. The books were the only semblance I had of my previous life. Whenever Jack would get the protruding veins and bloodshot eyes, I would quickly retreat to the comforters like a mouse and place a book at the foot of the bed. As a one person war slowly demolished everything in the house, the only peace treaty was fiction.

Picture Story- Draft 1

I can read, yet illiteracy fills my life. Reading is what gave me joy and happiness. This everyday ability changed my life. It gave me hope in a time of fear. It gave me fear. A knock on our door in the Paris slums didn’t bring me out of my absorption in my new book. My siblings can’t read, I was the only one that bothered to pay attention in school. I only went to school for three years, since I was not the eldest child and a girl. Yet, I was the only one of my six siblings that enjoyed school. For my birthday each year, my siblings saved their measly salaries that they earned working at the hardware store and went to the bookstore. They picked out a book in which they liked the picture on the cover. An odd assortment of novels have flowed through our small cardboard box home as a result. Nevertheless, I have devoured each one. My mother yelled from outside “ELIZA, GET YOUR SKINNY REAR OUT HERE, NOW!”
Still stuck in gracefully strung words, I dawdled out to the front. A tall, well dressed man stood amidst broken beer battles and my dwarfish mother in her worn light pink floral night dress. A beer battle identical to the product of the pieces on the ground was in my mother’s hand, nearly drained. The visitor’s appearance is not what made him stick out, it was his smell. He smelled of premium liquor, a smell I would grow to hate, while everything else reeked of cheap gas station beer. My mother finished off her beer with unusual vigor. Lacking her normal lethargic, slurred speech, she proudly announced that I was getting married to the sticking-out-like-a-sore-thumb man. I didn’t learn his name until our wedding night two weeks later.
Jack Lire was a prominent socialite who attended party after party, drank drink after drink, schmoozing with different important people, one after another. All of his money had come from inheritance after his father died. His father, Bartholomew Lire, had founded an electrical company. Being a smart business man with a lot of luck, he sold the business right before it crashed, and ran off with the money. One year later, he was found dead, a bullet through his heart. Jack got the money and the story never hit the news stands. Now, feeling like Eliza Doolittle, I thrown from the slums to the famous Parisian lifestyle. My family made off with a little money, which went towards beer for all, not just my mother.
Jack didn’t just smell like liquor the day he came to claim me. He smelled like liquor every hour of everyday. Anger was the married companion to Jack’s drunken behavior. Alcohol and abuse were nothing new the elite class of Parisians. The people in Jack’s circle claimed to have never seen Jack without a mistress. He had been married five times as well as different dates to each party, sometimes more than one in a night. Each wife had come to a mysterious fate. Their deaths never made it to the newspapers stands. Jack’s friends convince themselves that the five victims left Jack because of his drinking. Everyone knew that women were never given that opportunity in the late 19th century. I looked at pictures that lined the house. Different women, different hair colors, different eye colors, all had the same desolate expression in their eyes. Stricken with fear, I retreated to my bed chamber, which was the size of my gloriously small home in the slums which I missed dearly now, to live in a fictional story. Minutes later, Jack pushed through the door. His eyes were bloodshot, veins protruding from his forehead and balding head. “You can read?” he cried, words tinted with alcohol. Shaking under the comforter, I felt cemented to the bed. A chair hit the wall. The pieces lay on the floor, like the pieces to a child’s jigsaw. For fear I might end up like the chair and the previous five wives I simply nodded. As if an ice storm had come, the raging mania that had caused Jack to succumb to violence diminished. Suddenly serene, he sat down on the bed next to me. “Will you read to me?” he asked so quietly I wasn’t sure if I had understood him. “I do not think you will like my book. It’s Little Women.” “Read anyway.” I feared another outburst, so I flipped the tired pages back to the beginning and read the story of the four sisters.
I would like to think that reading was the answer to everybody’s problems, just as it had been for me. Alcohol and violence still lingered in the mansion. The couple never left, but gradually became less and less intrusive. We still went to parties constantly, but they too became less of shock than the first few. Yet, I always felt out of place, even at the mansion. I never called it home and still occasionally yearned for the slums and my family, who I hadn’t seen in years. The books were the only semblance I had of my previous life. Whenever Jack would get the protruding veins and bloodshot eyes, I would quickly retreat to the comforters like a mouse and place a book at the foot of the bed. As a one person war slowly demolished everything in the house, the only peace treaty was fiction.

Wedding Paper- WA 5- Final Draft

The setting was lovely. The wedding was set under a flowered canopy along the Seine, facing the Eiffel Tower at sunset. Two hundred and fifty guests gazed lovingly at me in the night I have dreamed about for years. The ceremony was flawless. I couldn’t be happier. Throughout the ceremony, I fantasized about the beautiful cake that would be awaiting the boat on which our reception was being held. This was how I always imagined it.
Everyone is at the ceremony. A quiet blanket of love covered the wide, varied patchwork of the friends and family. The ceremony kindled fond memories for the to- be newly- weds. While serenity coats the party at the banks of the Seine, chaos is wired throughout the kitchen. As the caterer, we get the length of the wedding to set up. My staff is obediently following my commands. The food was prepared ahead of time, but it has to be finalized and made presentable. The life of a caterer is hectic- the available resources at different venues are unknown until our arrival, so we hope the kitchen will have what we need.
As smoothly as the wedding was going, all I was focused on was the cake. I dreamt about the cake since I was little girl. I had hired the best chef in Paris, who also happened to be a great caterer in general. Throughout the ceremony, the cake is all I could think about.
The soufflé burnt. Each oven’s internal temperature is different, even when it reads the same. Unknowingly, the once beautifully crafted soufflé is now a horrendously tragic pile of ash. As the caterer, it is my responsibility to make sure that the wedding party never finds out about all of the inevitable mishaps that occur in the kitchen as the reception looms. In forty-five minutes, I must recreate a major dish with what was in the kitchen. The smells of the different dishes being heated are vigorously swirling around the little kitchen with such force that I was worried that it might knock over the pièce- de- resistance: the four tiered, alternating chocolate- vanilla level wedding cake.
I managed to create chicken morengo with ingredients I found in the pantry. As the timer approaches single digits, the waitressing staff frantically lines up the appetizer plates, yelling and screaming for the lack of certain plates distracted me from the real issue at hand until the reception was already underway.

The ride along the Seine was smooth and peaceful. The sun had set. In its place was a luminous moon. The Eiffel Tower slowly tiptoed towards the awed guests. The dinner had been brilliant.
The meal had gone smoothly, regardless of the different setbacks along the way. When it was time for me to bring out my prized wedding cake, I noticed a broken snowflake lying in the middle of a trail of white icing leading in no particular direction other than disaster. I followed the path away from the now dilapidated cake on the counter to a corner of the kitchen. At the end of the path, I found a waiter nursing one mother mouse and five, furless, pink baby mice. The mice were sitting in a pile of icing and crumbs.
Determined screaming came from the kitchen where all of the delicious food has been streaming out consistently for the past two hours. Suddenly, all two hundred and fifty heads turned, five hundred eyes glazed over in amazement.
‘Sir, look at these adorable baby mice I found. They can’t be more than six hours old! I’ve already named them. Tears began flowing like a sink faucet.
All five hundred ears heard:
‘Do you realize what these mice have done? My cake is ruined.’
It was then I started to cry, tears flowing down my face, my makeup ruined. I looked at the caterer, anguish his over ruined creation filled the worn creases around his eyes.
The guests quickly lost interest, hoping for more food by the fantastic chef.
The ceremony finished without any further dilemmas. In the same spirit as the chicken dish was made, the catering staff and I whipped together some more minor desserts. The guests seemed pleased.
And desserts they got. While the wedding’s end was not the one I had anticipated, nor the I had dreamed about. In the end, the guests seemed to enjoy themselves anyways. In the end, that’s better than the perfect wedding cake.

Wedding Paper- WA 5 Draft 2

Getting Ready- Before the Wedding
The day that every girl has dreamed of is finally here. As a child, I used to pretend it was my wedding day. Now that it my day was finally here. I wanted to be absolutely flawless. The staple of weddings is the cake. Anybody can pay a small fortune for a gorgeous dress, but only the select few can have a stunning, dazzling cake. I was determined to have that cake. So, I hired the most famous cake designer in all of Paris to design my cake. I wanted it to be perfect, down the details of the couple at the top. I knew François de Chegalle would be able the creation of such a work of art. The cake would be a surprise for my fiancée and me after the reception today.

The Ceremony
The setting was chimerical. It was set under a flowered canopy along the Seine, facing the Eiffel Tower at sunset. Two hundred and fifty guests watched me in the night I have dreamed about for years. The ceremony was flawless. I couldn’t be happier. Throughout the ceremony, I fantasized about the beautiful cake that would be awaiting the boat on which our reception was being held. This was how I always imagined it. A magnificent cake on a river cruise down the Seine towards the glistening, gleaming, glowing Eiffel Tower, with a perfect husband and our two hundred and fifty closest friends

The Reception- After the Wedding
The Seine was perfectly pacific, only a gentle breaking of the wave along the side of the boat. The sun had set. In its place was a luminous moon that was glowing even brighter than the sun. The Eiffel Tower slowly tiptoed towards the awed guests. The dinner had been this fantastic chicken dish that de Chegalle had created. It wasn’t a soufflé, but it actually was better than a soufflé. It was time for what I had really been dreaming about. Suddenly, all two hundred and fifty heads turned, five hundred eyes glazed over in amazement. Determined screaming came from the kitchen where all of the delicious food has been streaming out consistently for the past two hours. All five hundred ears heard: ‘Do you realize what these mice have done? My cake is ruined.’
It was then I started to cry, tears flowing down my face, my makeup ruined. Instead of looking like a princess, I looked like a zombie bride out of a bad horror movie. The food tasted stale. The most perfect night of my life crashed and burned in a matter of seconds. I looked at de Chegalle, anguish his over ruined creation that was like a baby to him and the cake that had dreamed of for years had been ruined. Tears were nearly flowing down his face nearly as fast as they were down mine. I ran to the captain and yelled at him to pull the boat over. When he protested that we weren’t near a dock, I screamed that it didn’t matter. The night was over. I didn’t want any more catastrophes added to the already growing list that accumulated over the past few, wretched minutes. My heart was writhing with sorrow and anger for the combustion that occurred this evening. The boat pulled over. With my heels in hand I rand on the mud, trailing my once perfectly snow white dress now stricken with dirt.