Since that time, now and again, I hear that a plantation wedding is like holding a wedding in a concentration camp. But despite how distasteful it is, that’s not a good analogy at all. Concentration camps were not intended to be glamourous. They were not meant to feed the fantasy of being a master or mistress who is gloriously indulged by their chattel. They were brutish. But the strange, cruel beauty of the plantation, its gothic horror, is a holdover from the past, intoxicating witnesses with the scent of honeysuckle and fried chicken along with the smell of blood-soaked soil.
