Confetti, Church Steps, and the Best Kind of Flashback

This weekend, I worked a wedding that did something unexpected. It didn't just make me smile. It didn't just make me tear up a little (okay, maybe it did that too). It took me back. Back to a time when weddings were pure magic, seen through the eyes of a little girl with pigtails and a whole lot of wonder.

I remember attending weddings as a child, mainly in the local church. The tall steps, the wooden doors, that particular smell of old hymnals and floor polish. I would sit wide-eyed in the pew, absolutely convinced the groom was a prince and the bride was a princess—fresh off the pages of a storybook. They floated. They glowed. They were everything.

And then, the best part: the church steps.

After the ceremony, all the guests would tumble out into the sunlight, clutching little envelopes of confetti. The couple would emerge, grinning like they'd just won the lottery of love, and everyone would shower them. Confetti in their hair, on their shoulders, caught in the bride's veil like tiny colorful stars. They'd run down the stairs to their getaway vehicle—whatever it was, I don't remember the make or model, but I do remember it had plastic flowers taped to the back and a little heart that said "Just Married." And honestly? That was all that mattered.

Then came the lingering. The guests would stand around on the grass, visiting, laughing, discussing how beautiful the couple looked. The kids—myself included—would run wild. We'd chase each other across the lawn, jump up and down the stairs like we owned them, or eventually collapse and rest our sleepy heads against our moms' hips, overwhelmed by the excitement of it all.

And I always, always envied the flower girls. Those little dresses made for twirling. Those shiny patent leather shoes that clicked when you walked. They were tiny celebrities to me, and I would watch them spin and spin until they got dizzy and giggled themselves into a heap.

I don't actually remember when the confetti toss happened—before the reception? After? Honestly, childhood memories are magic that way. They blur the timeline and keep all the best parts. What I do remember is that eventually, we all gathered in the church basement for the reception. The bride and groom were there, still glowing, still grinning, still very much the prince and princess of my little-girl imagination.

And that is where this weekend's wedding brought me right back.

The family had made all the food. And I don't mean they ordered a few platters from the local deli. I mean they labored. For days. You could taste the love in every single bite. It was a feast in every sense of the word—sandwiches piled high, salads in every color of the rainbow, bowls of pickles and olives, fresh fruit and veggies, and enough sweets to cause more than one cavity (worth it, every single time).

There were two women at the heart of it all, working that buffet line like seasoned pros. I think one was Grandma Liz and the other was Aunt Pat—or at least, that's what I'm choosing to believe. I hope that was her name. In my memory and in my heart, she is Aunt Pat, and she is a legend. These ladies could rock a platter. They could arrange a buffet table like it was art. They moved with purpose, with warmth, with that unmistakable energy of women who have been feeding people with love their whole lives.

The whole reception was so filled with family love. There was some beautiful kitchen chaos—the kind where everyone's bumping into each other, laughing, passing dishes over heads, and somehow making it all work. No one was upset when things weren't perfect. They just fixed it, kept a smile on their face, and carried on like it was all part of the plan. Because honestly? It was. The plan was love, and they were nailing it.

Everyone was kind. Everyone was grateful—not just for our assistance, but for the bride and groom, for the gathering, for the simple miracle of being together. There were no hundred-dollar plates of fancy food. No elaborate cocktails or mocktails with smoke and edible flowers. Just tons of smiles, loads of laughs, and family spilling out of every corner of that hall.

And a few wide-eyed kids, just like I used to be, standing on the edges of the dance floor. Dreaming. Watching the prince and princess twirl. Already counting down the days until the next time they get to do this all over again.

Some things change. Trends come and go. Colors evolve, menus get fancier, entertainment gets more elaborate. And I love all of it—truly I do.

But this weekend reminded me that at its heart, a wedding is still what it always was.

A prince and a princess. A shower of confetti. A kitchen full of food made by hands that know how to love. And a little girl—or a grown woman, same difference—watching it all with her heart wide open.

And honestly? That's the best trend of all.

Sweet Thyme has officially been sprinkled with nostalgia. Now pass me a pickle and a cookie. You know, for research.

XOXO,

Sweet Thyme