{Newlyweds Cook} Annie + Oliver

{images courtesy of Martha Stewart Weddings}

Wedding season is upon us, and since my sweet brother and his long-time girlfriend, Karen, are recently engaged, we're all abuzz around here about wedding details once again, something I hadn't thought a lot about since my own magical day. And, since we're having a Martha moment over here, I thought it was a perfect time to share with you one of the most beautiful weddings I have ever seen, which was featured in the pages of Martha Stewart Weddings. The betrothed, Annie and her sweet groom Olly, are the sister and brother-in-law of my friend Katie, of Mom's Kitchen Handbook. When I saw their wedding, my jaw literally dropped. Annie is a couture dress designer, and her utterly romantic line Annie Sullivan | Couture Bridal,  recently launched. So it's not surprising that there were so many elegant details applied to her own wedding day. On the eve of Annie and Olly's first year anniversary, I asked Annie to recall their sweet story.

Annie says...


I have always had a fixation on all things French. I moved to France in my twenties, sure that I would fall in love with a French man and have French-speaking children who would drink hot chocolate out of little bowls and call me “maman.”  

Instead, after a couple of years on French soil, I returned to New York City and fell head-over-heels for Oliver Cobb, a hunky Englishman who was kinder than anyone I'd ever dated, French or otherwise, and had an accent that made me swoon.   

On our first date, while throwing back copious amounts of oysters and Sancerre, Olly casually mentioned his family's house in the south of France. As if I wasn't already hooked by his entirely charming self, this little tidbit was the icing on the cake. We have been together ever since.

On our first trip to Paris together, after a boozy lunch in Saint Germain, I led Olly through the teensy, twisted streets to Rue Bonaparte so he could sample what I considered pure heaven: an olive oil and vanilla macaron from the pastry shop, Pierre Hermé. We ordered several other flavors -- caramel with fleur de sel, rose, lemon, chocolate -- and stood in the square in front Saint Sulpice church with our waxed paper bag, nibbling our way through each one, warmed by Paris' afternoon sun. We were in love. 

Fast forward to our wedding. I wanted the day to feel like a spectacular European dinner party set in a far gone era.  The dessert had to be just right, and I am not a fan of English sweets. The likes of  Battenberg cake, fruit cake, bakewell tart, and something called “spotted dick," are not for me. Sticky toffee pudding is the one exception, but lacks the elegance I had envisioned. Going with French desserts seemed like a no-brainer.

We decided we would have a dessert table laden with classic French sweets, something the likes of which Marie Antoinette would have approved. Making the traditional French wedding cake, croquembouche, the centerpiece, would be the crowning touch. 

Croquembouche is essentially a tower of crème puffs or profiteroles, shaped into a tall cone, bound with spindly ribbons of spun sugar. Since pastry chef Francois Payard makes them magnificently, we asked him to do ours, along with all of the wedding desserts. 

Aside from the croquembouche, the table was laid with assorted diminutive goodies, everything from macarons to miniature lemon tarts, madelines, and petite éclairs. It was whimsical and decadent and the perfect end to the day. 

Lucky for us, Payard Pastry is a subway ride away, where we can go and reminisce about our first macaron together in Paris, and our first one as a married couple.

In the end I got what I wanted: the love of my life. I figure I can just teach our children to call me "maman."

~

{A Party} The Newlywed Cookbook at Pink Olive, NYC

I hate to go all girlie on you, but if you'll let me for just a second, there's something about a pretty shop and a gathering of girls that just puts me into happy fits. Next Saturday, I'll be celebrating and signing my book, The Newlywed Cookbook, at Pink Olive, on a charmed little rue in the East Village {details above}. Come join me, Pink Olive's gracious owner Grace Kang, 2h flowers, and Izze sparkling juice as we toast and celebrate the season of the betrothed. RSVP at Concierge@pinkolive.com and I promise to save you one of my Deep Dark Secret Chocolate Cookies. xo


A special thanks to....

Martha Stewart + Me

 {Photo by FRANÇOIS DISCHINGER}

Pssst....

I should be sleeping right now, but I'm going on The Martha Stewart Show tomorrow, and I'm kind of excited. Not only is Martha an impressive icon, she took things that I think have tremendous value --feeding your family,  making a home, tending a garden -- and not only made them chic, but potentially lucrative too. Things our mothers did for free. Women getting paid to make the world a more beautiful, delicious place? Amen to that.

Love her or not, if you've watched her show lately, you may know Martha has a pretty good sense of humor. And she must be a good sport, too. Imagine inviting people on your show and letting them show you how to do things you know very well how to do. Like bake cookies. See, it's really quite generous. She gives us our chance to shine. And for that, well, Martha, I think you're the bee's knees.

I'll be sure to let you know the air date! But for now, night night. Time to get my beauty rest. 

xo

Sarah 

Newlyweds Cook: Kamilah + Julius

Call me old fashioned, but I believe all that business about food being the way to a man's heart (though in truth, it's the way to a lot of ladies hearts too). I'm a bit of a sucker for anyone who embraces the innocent hope that their cooking can cast a spell on their beloved. So I have to hand it to my friend Kamilah Duggins for putting her charms to work to nab her hubs, Julius.

Kamilah and I were pals way back in Journalism school at the University of Missouri. We talked more about getting the story than getting the guy back then, but when she turned up ten years later (just a subway ride away in Brooklyn, no less), I was thrilled to learn that we share a crazy love for food and our guys. I'm thrilled to introduce you to our Newlyweds Cook editor, Kamilah and her husband Julius, our debut Newlyweds. Here is their story:

Kamilah + Julius
Brooklyn, NY

So many details escape me about that winter evening six years ago when I first had Julius over for dinner. Memory of the weather, what I wore or what music was on the old-school boom box in my kitchen—all the stuff lovers swear they'll never forget—has quietly faded into the background and made way for other, newer moments. But I do remember something of an electric feeling as I buzzed around that day in preparation. It was our first date at my apartment. We had seen each other six, maybe seven times, and I may have already called my friend Amanda to tell her I had met the man I would marry.

I breezed through the market and tidied up the shabby, not-so-chic Brooklyn apartment I shared with three guys who were probably away playing a gig that night. As I stirred the pot, I caught myself daydreaming about how he might react when the first bite of this meal passed his lips. Would he put the fork down and close his eyes to silently savor the magic? Or break into a smile that said what a lucky guy he was? It sounds ridiculous, I know. But what can I say? When it comes to cooking, and almost nothing else, I’m a little bit of a show-off (this also applies to game night; if Taboo or Catchphrase is involved, you want me on your team).

In an effort to impress, but not overwhelm, I chose West Indian style curry shrimp as my entree. It was simple, but the flavors were complex; humble, but still special; familiar, but in the cold of winter, transporting; and most importantly, the star ingredient was Julius’s favorite. Unless he just happened to hate curry, this, I knew, would be a slam dunk.

When he arrived, the air was redolent of cumin, coriander, ginger and cinnamon, a comforting backdrop for the headiness of our energy together. When it was time to eat, I made our plates, sat down, watched as he took a bite, and waited for it: The widening of his eyes, the exclamation to form in his mouth, something that would tell me he was utterly blown away. That this meal was like manna from heaven.

But that’s not what happened. Not so much as groan of satisfaction left his mouth. Instead, he returned to his pre-dinner conversation, and that was that. Evening slipped into night and he hadn’t even said if he liked it.

Ladies and gentleman, my bubble had been burst.

When I ask Julius what he remembers about that date, he says he sensed my mood was somewhat deflated after dinner that night, but he wasn't sure why. When I brought it up months later, his defense was that he cleaned his plate and asked for seconds. What more did I need? I don’t know. In my family when it comes to food, if you like it, you say so. And if it’s really good, you go on about it.

I guess that’s the fun and maddening thing about marriage: while we are joining hands and committing to build a future together, we are silently bringing all of our ‘ways’ with us. My family talks, but Julius comes from a clan of doers.

As it turns out, he loved that meal. Between that and the chocolate chip peanut butter cookies I donated to his super bowl party (I’ll have to give you that recipe sometime), he had all his friends convinced that I was a five-star chef. And ever since, he has been my favorite person to cook for. He likes the mistakes, he washes the dishes, and when we sit down to dinner together just about every night, he is so grateful, so appreciative. In fact, I can’t remember the last time he ate from our kitchen and didn’t tell me how good it was.

Now it’s your turn. We're dying to hear about the first meal you cooked for your love. Won't you tell us?

In the meantime, eat well.

Kamilah

Country Chicks, City Chick

porva, hungary

Csirke, which means chicken, was the very first word I learned in Hungarian. I'm not sure how or why, since between András and I, we eat chicken rarely to never, but by the time I made my first trip to Hungary with him, this word was planted firmly in my vocabulary.

On that first trip, we visited András’ nagymama {grandmother}, or Mamma, on her farm in Porva, next door to the tiny house that would become ours. I fell in love with her, her strudel, her land which she farmed by hand in the late afternoons, and the csirke that ran around her backyard showing off their clean coats like pompous city pups. Their presence gave this land that to me seemed to me more fairy tale than working farm an unmistakable authenticity.

Since that first trip, I always visit the hens, happy as larks laying their eggs for our table, and whisper them thanks. We owe much to them.

Nine months after our wedding in Virginia, András, his parents and I hosted a Lakodalom {wedding party} or Lagzi in our backyard in Porva just yards from the little chapel where we laid Mamma to rest earlier that week. At dinner, her csirke ran around clucking beneath our wedding table of kolbász and parikas, Tokaji and goulash ladled from the family bogrács that bubbled over a live fire. Just before dessert, I picked up one of her csirke and tucked it into the silk of my dress, now well worn from two of the happiest days of my life. András' father snapped this photo, which turned out to be one of my favorites of the day, which nods at the dichotomy between the city and country life we both adore, and our shared love for those who cultivate life on the land, including Mamma, whom we dearly miss.

Some of our other favorite photos from this day are featured today on The Brides Guide, the Martha Stewart Wedding blog, and we're deeply honored. And I’m sure from time to time, you’ll hear more about that day here too.

As for the csirke, stay tuned.

I do {the first supper}

, Ta

If I could eat every meal in a popular grove in Virginia on a warm October night, sitting at a single table under a canopy of lights with everyone I’ve ever loved, I would. If the table were lit with candlelight and lined with vintage napkins, little boxes of whoopie pies and pleasantries, even better. If could drink champagne and eat stuffed artic char and artisan cheeses and charcuterie and simmered carrots with caraway and chocolate cake with chamomile cream, I would do that too. And if I could sit and talk with András, my siblings, our parents and our dearest friends as the sun fell out of the sky, I would be the happiest girl on earth. But it happened only once. This was our wedding day.

There are dozens of treasured moments and memories tied into every detail of our wedding, from the minute we arrived at the Berry Hill Estate, to the moment we stole away after our last goodbyes to eat our leftover cheese and cake on a blanket somewhere deep on Berry Hill's back 40.

When I think back on that day now, I taste the blackberry cobbler and pickled peaches of our rehearsal dinner that we ate under the sky watching A Knight’s Tale in a courtyard full of boxwoods; I hear dad counting “one, two, rockstep” as we practiced our dance up in a grand old room just hours before he led me down the aisle;

I see the blur of the sparklers that spun in circles in the giddy hands of my nieces and nephew who twirled and whirled barefoot in the dance floor; I feel the world swirl to a stop at the sound of András’ voice telling me “I András, take you Sarah…”

But it is at the table that our life truly began.

One hot summer Saturday in August just a few years ago, András showed up at the front door of my apartment on 21^st street. When I called looking for someone to come have a look at the piano I’d been given, I expected someone forgettable. What I got was quite the opposite, a man who before long was sitting across from me at my table eating my homemade babganoush and labne, laughing and lighting up my little world, sending a wash of peace over my bachelorette’s abode. But that is a story for another day.

The proposal happened deep in a forest full of ferns on a Sunday afternoon in May, high in the Hungarian hills near Porva where András spent his summers as a little boy. We celebrated, around his mother’s table, where for the next 6 days the planning began.

In those first days, we didn’t think to much about where we would say I do {Hungary, Illinois, New York?} only about a table, long and loving enough for all of our nearest and dearest to sit side by side as we had our first meal together as husband and wife. It seemed symbolic—the first supper. We talked about what we would serve and why, about who we would want to be there, and mostly about the importance of breaking bread with the people who would come as a show of support for our vow to love, honor and cherish each other.

It’s impossible to get a girl to sum up her wedding day in just a few words. To me, a wedding is made of up many small, magical moments pieced together by minutes and hours that past far too fast and are held dear by the grace of friends and family who humor you when you’re still talking about it a year later. They are preserved by the generosity of curators like Martha Stewart Weddings, who is honoring us today by including our wedding in their Real Weddings gallery.

A wedding is, at the end of the day, a perfect memory. The marriage, on the other hand, we hope goes on on on, moment upon moment, dream upon dream, meal upon meal, starting with this, our first supper.

P.S. I believe in giving credit where credit is due. Like so many details of our wedding that were created or borrowed from someone we love, we got the idea for the table from our friends Josh and Doris, who wed the summer before us, and have since moved on to other things {baby}. And, the vintage napkins and candlesticks came from them too. How wonderful to have friends who share.

P.S.S. This is our first dance.

{wedding logos and styling by Sponge Cake Press. images by James Bowman and Nick Pironio.}