Photos: Chris Isham
I grew up in its shadow. The turrets rise just over the tree tops opposite my childhood home, and I could see them standing on my front porch. Some children pine to visit Disney; I just wanted to get into the castle. It seems serendipitous, therefore, that my first wedding story feature should take place at The Gassaway Mansion, stately owner of that tower with its fairytale turrets.
I believe that I make cake for the drama of it more than anything. It's the crack under the door through which the light shines and my entry ticket into one story after another. The story of the ingredients - the man who grinds my flour and the zillion bug bites from picking blackberries. I always ask the lovers how they met. It isn't nosy; it is research. The stage is set with flickering candles and the wooden bas relief of the Last Supper peers down behind the cake table. We can't move it, and it's ok. Mostly I know how I want people to feel, like I do, part of something bigger than all of us and so marvelous.