I spent more time than I care to admit looking for the man who would one day become my husband. The wait was longer and, in addition, more complicated than it needed to be. Arrival is surprisingly simple like something I misplaced and suddenly found.
The date was Saturday, October 26, 2019. I spent the evening before preparing for a scone and jam-making class at Bakehouse Nola (which I affectionately called my New Orleans house) – I’d open the doors to strangers with tickets. baking classes and inevitable friendships).
The class went off without a hitch, the kind of quiet success I would expect from a bakehouse. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the side windows, my cat catching Tron in his usual sunlight vigil. Bowls full of flour were carefully placed by the sink, a small mountain I knew I would have to conquer eventually. My friend Abby stayed long after the other guests left, less about scrubbing and more about putting me through the motions.
He asked me what I was doing that evening – the highly anticipated week before Halloween in New Orleans. Now, New Orleans is the easiest city to get into, both for plans and trouble. You can even plan your trouble if you’re meeting friends at, say, Bourbon Street after 10 p.m. I had no plans. I wasn’t even sure I wanted anything when I looked down at my very comfortable couch, the laptop resting on it, and thought about the Sunday post that needed to be done.
I’m not even sure I answered Abby’s question before she invited me to the Halloween party she and her husband were going to later that evening. He said it was going to be fun and I was inclined to believe him. Also, staying home the Saturday before Halloween, what stories was I going to come up with on Monday?
Now, what does one wear to a Halloween party with no costume and only a few hours notice? My answer was unconventional but decisive: no pants. Which is to say I arrived dressed as Tom Cruise dangerous business, A character I only vaguely remembered, but felt confident enough to impersonate in men’s briefs, tube socks, and knockoff Ray Bans. It was a calculated kind of chaos, the kind you choose when you’re hoping for a weekend of trouble or a good story.
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 laying down next to chicken nuggets, questioning my life choices — namely, leaving the house without pants to mingle with strangers. I was half listening to the conversation on Abby’s side, offering the occasional polite “mmhmm” when I looked up and saw her.
Will was wearing jeans and boots, a woolen shawl that was probably a blanket draped over his shoulders and not a cowboy hat but a very stylish western hat. Just the right amount of stubble and jawline just like you imagine a cowboy silhouetted at sunset. He was conversing with two gentlemen, who, if memory serves, were much younger than him, lending to the fictional quality I instantly created for him in my mind.
It wasn’t love at first sight. It was something calmer, 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, He is there. He is the man you are looking for. Just like that.
Without taking my eyes off her, I nudged Abby and asked, “Who’s that?” He studied her for a moment and said, “Oh, we work together. I haven’t seen her in years.”
I looked him 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 us both in 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 his motorcycle down my street to take me on our first ride. iBy coincidenceHe was so beautiful that I had to pick my jaw up from the floor. A few months later he moved from New Orleans to Houston. A few years later I also moved to Texas.
For the past five years, I’ve lived in the stable orbit of a love that feels like home—unwavering, true, and quietly extraordinary. It’s the kind of love you don’t recognize as much when she’s standing in front of 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 to ride a motorcycle myself. After countless rides, looking over Will’s shoulder, I thought, How hard can it be? The answer revealed itself over the next six months as I dropped Will’s bike in an empty school parking lot, snapped the clutch lever, crushed my pride, and cried—a lot of crying. Learning, it turns out, is never humble.
Will was (let’s be honest, is) is always there to pull me out from under the bike when I tip it over, offering me the calm reassurance of his patience. He didn’t flinch at the scratches I left on the frame (at least not in front of me) or the broken lever I casually handed him. Instead, he mapped out our rides, coached me to merge onto the interstate, and repeated the same gentle refrain: “Get on your ride.” As I follow behind him, I know he is clearing the way for both of us. If he changes lanes, I’m sure it’s safe to follow—though, of course, I still watch myself. I’m careless, not crazy.
After about a year of riding, we went out with Will’s more experienced motorcycle friend. Riding with big dogs is not for the faint of heart. This guy walked across intersections and freeways like we were in a video game. He never once checked his glasses to see if I was watching or not. Somewhere on the freeway, caught up in the chaos of it all, I quietly took off the inside of 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 hold back my tears.
Will stood next to me, stunned. “What happened?”
Through muffled sobs, I called out, “I can’t ride behind Paul! He doesn’t love me!”
Will laughed, a deep, easy voice that cut through my despair like sunlight. I managed a watery smile, pulled myself together, and followed Will the rest of the way. Turns out, you can ride with people who don’t love you but it sure doesn’t feel like it.
Months ago, Will and I decided to surprise our family with a wedding at our Thanksgiving celebration. None of us wanted the spectacle of a year-long planning process, and it would be a shame to waste a moment when many of our loved ones would already be gathered in the big house in Belleville. In fact, 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 than my outfit. We served our neighbor’s smoked turkey, macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, creamed spinach—familiar family holiday dishes, each executed with care. I wore A simple dress with refinement, Shoes from Everlane. Will, ever himself, wore a fresh Wrangler shirt.
My father organized the event. Will’s mom played the piano as I walked down the aisle. His father recited by heart. My mother—who knew what I had to do before I even thought to ask—seemed to be everywhere at once, handling the kind of details that only mothers can see. She and I wore matching Aunt Mary pins, a silent symbol of connection. My sister turned into an event coordinator overnight, directing everyone with ease (or was it an iron fist?) My uncle cleaned parts of the house I hadn’t even considered. , while my aunt ironed, washed, organized and generally turned chaos into calm. The fact that we pulled it off was, honestly, unbelievable!
Our friends Trevor And Sarah Came from New Orleans to take pictures, although I don’t think he realized he’d be working so hard when he agreed to spend Thanksgiving in Texas. My friend Suzon made me the most amazing bouquet of paper magnolia flowers that I will treasure forever. Somehow, that extra effort made the memories sweeter—work blends seamlessly into joy.
The stuff was served warm and the chocolate stout raspberry cake I made because our wedding cake was stored in the neighbor’s fridge. We served lunch at the most wonderful. William Morris Plates And vintage turkey plates borrowed from Will’s aunt’s little details that felt as quietly extravagant as day. What mattered most were the words Will and I said to each other, surrounded by the people who have loved us most.
For those of you who have been around since my Los Angeles days — through burnt scones, overly salty cookies, tricks and midnight epiphanies — thank you for stopping by. It’s weird and wonderful to think how much life has changed since I first shared a recipe on this blog, yet the constant connection has always been there: 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.