Red Cream Soda Punch

Amber got married. My little sister. The girl who was twenty-one and dating Darren when I was twenty-four and broke and standing in a Waffle House parking lot. The girl who screamed when I got into Nashville State. The girl who drove to Nashville for my graduation and wore Mama's perfume and held my hand on the porch on Fourth of July and said, "I'm so proud of you, Sarah." That girl put on a white dress in a barn in Chattanooga on August 18, 2018, and married the man who brings steaks and opens doors and means it when he says forever.

The ceremony. Oh, the ceremony. The barn was strung with lights — a thousand tiny lights, like stars had come inside to watch. The peonies were everywhere (and they were worth every argument and every phone call and every crisis). Darren stood at the altar looking like a man who couldn't believe his luck. Kevin stood beside him as a groomsman, tall and steady in his suit, and Crystal sat in the family row looking at Kevin looking at Darren looking at the door where Amber was about to appear.

I walked down the aisle first. Maid of honor. Champagne dress. New shoes (not Payless this time — DSW, $40, a measured upgrade). I held my bouquet and I looked at the people in the chairs: Mama in her navy dress, crying before anyone had even appeared. Chloe in her matching champagne dress and her tiara, sitting up straight, holding the stack of programs she'd handed out at the door with the professionalism of a woman twice her age. Jayden in the "itchy shirt," squirming on Mama's lap. Kevin's Army buddies. Darren's family. A barn full of people who came to watch two good people choose each other.

Then Amber walked in. And the barn went quiet. And she was so beautiful that the word "beautiful" wasn't enough — she was radiant, luminous, the kind of beautiful that happens when a person is exactly where they're supposed to be. She looked at Darren and smiled and he started crying and I started crying and Mama was already crying and Chloe whispered, loudly enough for three rows to hear: "She looks like a PRINCESS, Mama."

She does, baby. She looks like a princess. And the prince is crying. And the maid of honor is crying. And the grandmother in the navy dress is crying. And the six-year-old in the tiara is the only one NOT crying because Chloe Mitchell doesn't cry at weddings, she NARRATES them, and she provided a running commentary through the entire ceremony: "Now they're holding hands." "Now the man is talking about God." "Now they're putting on the RINGS!" "NOW THEY KISS!" She said "NOW THEY KISS" at full volume and the entire barn laughed and Amber laughed through her tears and Darren laughed through his tears and it was the most perfect moment of the most perfect day.

I gave my maid-of-honor speech at the reception. I don't remember all of it. I remember saying: "My sister is the bravest person I know, because she chose love in a family that was taught to expect leaving. Darren, you don't know what you've done. You didn't just marry a woman. You proved to every Mitchell in this room that staying is real." Mama cried so hard Kevin had to hold her. Amber cried. Darren cried. The whole barn cried. The peonies were beautiful. The centerpieces were indistinguishable from each other. It was perfect.

I danced with Chloe. I danced with Jayden on my hip. I danced with Kevin and with Amber and with Mama, who doesn't dance but swayed, which is Lorraine Mitchell's version of dancing and it is enough. I danced in my champagne dress in a barn in Chattanooga and I was happy — the deep, resonant, nothing-is-missing kind of happy — and I thought about every person who got me here: Earline, Mama, Denise, Tanisha, Mr. Gerald, Dr. Whitfield, the little girl at the screening who said "will you come back?" All of them in the room. All of them in me. All of them dancing.

We drove home Sunday. Three hours on I-24, Chloe asleep with a book on her chest, Jayden asleep with goldfish cracker dust on his face, and me behind the wheel of the Altima (dent and all), driving toward Hermitage, toward the apartment with the counter space, toward the life I built, wearing a champagne dress that still smelled like peonies and joy. My sister is married. My sister chose love. And in a family where the men left, the women stayed, and now — finally — a man stayed too. Darren stayed. The cycle is breaking. Not all at once. One wedding at a time.

I didn’t cook this week — not even close. I drove home from Chattanooga in a champagne dress smelling like peonies, put the kids to bed, and sat on the couch until midnight just holding the feeling of it all. But a wedding deserves a recipe, and this punch is exactly right: it’s sweet and a little fizzy and it looks like a celebration even before you pour it, which is exactly what Amber looked like walking into that barn. Make a big bowl of it, hand out the cups, and let somebody’s six-year-old narrate the whole thing at full volume. That’s the spirit.

Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 5 minutes | Servings: 16

Ingredients

2 liters red cream soda, chilled
1 liter ginger ale, chilled
1 can (12 oz) frozen raspberry lemonade concentrate, thawed
1/2 gallon raspberry or strawberry sherbet
1 cup cranberry juice, chilled
Fresh raspberries or sliced strawberries, for garnish (optional)

Instructions

Chill everything. Make sure your cream soda, ginger ale, and cranberry juice are fully chilled before assembling — this keeps the punch cold longer and the fizz intact.
Combine the base. In a large punch bowl, stir together the raspberry lemonade concentrate and cranberry juice until the concentrate is fully dissolved.
Add the sodas. Slowly pour in the red cream soda and ginger ale, tilting the bowl slightly if needed to preserve the carbonation. Stir gently once or twice.
Add the sherbet. Scoop the sherbet into the punch bowl in large rounds. It will float on top and slowly melt into the punch, keeping it cold and creamy as guests serve themselves.
Garnish and serve. Top with fresh raspberries or sliced strawberries if desired. Serve immediately with a ladle into punch cups or glasses.

Nutrition (per serving)

Red Cream Soda Punch — The Toast We All Deserved