“But Sarah, why in the garden? Why in the dirt?”
“Ma,” she replied, a hint of bewildered frustration in her voice, “I don't get it. You've accepted Dave's and our, um, cultural differences without blinking, and you're worried about dirt?”
“It's so...nontraditional, Sarah. I've looked forward to this day since the nurse handed you to me wrapped in your little pink blanket, and in my mind's eye I never imagined dirt!”
“I still have that blanket at home, by the way, if you ever need it for anything,” she added hopefully.
“It's dirt, mom. It's always ancient. It's always new. More goes on under it than above. It's food. It's Yin. And it holds the heat in when you're rolling around in it on an early fall night with your fella.”
A look of (feigned) shock began to muster on Betsy's face, but...”Don't even, ma. You think I don't remember some of those parties you and dad had when Jim and I were little?”
“Besides, not all of Dave's relatives are half horse...the winter rye will have come up pretty well by the time our big day gets here, and it will be nice for them to have something fresh to graze on during the reception.”
“It's true, Betsy,” Dave interjected impishly, “farm to plate is wonderful and all, but some of my peeps aren't too keen on plate to farm when they can eat on the hoof.”
Betsy sighed, and rolled her eyes a little. “Will you a least put down some boards somewhere so that people with shoes on can dance without falling over?”
“We'll plant the garlic patch after the wedding, and put the dance floor there. I love you mom.”
“I love you too, honey. Now, about the people food...”
