At the Swan Coach House in Atlanta
Nestles of pink and white roses ringed by sunny-eyed mums
peer out of glass silhouettes lining the long, linen’d lunch table.
Pastels mint fragile porcelain ring-cups flagging designer place-cards—
but for the great-granddaughter, whose last-minute inclusion prevents
any preprinted personalization. She curiously remarks at the absence
of her name for her five-year old mind cannot yet conceive of her unpresence.
Each printed card flaunts a tiny, chiffon bow flanked by petite, pearl rosettes.
Cream icing swathes tiered sugar cookies topped by green curly cues
and pink rosettes--tied up in transparent bags with ribbons likewise,
mirroring the luscious, floriated, old-South surroundings. All around us,
immaculate ladies conduct tète-à- tètes with friends—associates—as
our clique convenes to celebrate my friend’s 85th birthday party,
presented by her only daughter and aided by her business partner.
The meticulously tailored honoree exalts their exquisite expertise
evidenced in every detail as we all in unison affirm.
Clicks of cameras capture mimosas, mint juleps, red hats,
and bloody marys, as dainty hands dig mini-muffins and date-nut morsels
from napkined baskets. Entrées arrive: Cream of cauliflower (or squash)
soup centered between tactful tea sandwiches; chicken salad (or shrimp)
scooped into scalloped timbales coupled with frozen discs of fruit salad
set on crisp curves of lettuce. And for dessert—one fluffy, white swan floats
in on a china plate with whipped feathered cream around a mound of meringue
encasing creamy, chocolate mousse. Just for the ‘birthday girl,’
a lone flame leaps from its center as she grins deliriously at the scene
of such sinfully sweet serendipity.
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