I walked into our first florist meeting carrying a folder of peonies. It was March. Peonies, our florist Elena gently explained, would cost more than the band and arrive looking jet-lagged. Then she opened the cooler, and I forgot peonies entirely.
March gives you ranunculus with petals like tissue paper, sweet peas that smell like the garden after rain, anemones with ink-dark centres, and the first blush of cherry blossom. Everything local, everything at its peak, everything photographed like a dream because nothing is pretending to be in season.
“Choose what's blooming on your date and your flowers will always look like they belong — because they do.”
What we chose
Natali's bouquet: ranunculus, sweet peas and jasmine vine, tied with her grandmother's ribbon. The arch: blossom branches and roses that Elena grows herself two streets from the venue. The tables: low bowls of anemones and candles, so guests can actually see each other across the table — a hill worth dying on, apparently.
Total saving versus the peony dream: nearly half the budget, redirected to the string quartet. Nobody at the wedding will know what almost was. Everybody will remember what is: flowers that smell like March and look like they grew there.