I cannot stand when you go to a wedding and get fed tiny

In these words of Jon Richardson, we hear not merely the musings of a man about a feast, but the eternal wisdom of hospitality. He declares his disdain for tiny portions at the most sacred of gatherings, the wedding, for such a day is not one of restraint but of abundance. He vows that at his own union there shall be sausages, mash, gravy, and the noble Yorkshire pudding, that every guest may eat not only to survive but to rejoice. Here we see revealed the truth: the strength of a celebration is measured not in finery, but in the fullness of the people’s bellies and the warmth of their hearts.

The ancients, too, knew this law of generosity. In the epics of Homer, kings and heroes never began counsel or pact without first laying forth a banquet. To starve a guest was to dishonor them, but to feed them was to bind them in loyalty and love. When Odysseus returned in disguise to his own hall, he was tested not by questions but by the bread and meat offered him. Thus, food is not mere sustenance, but the language of welcome, the proof of honor, and the seal of friendship.

Richardson’s vow to offer abundance at his wedding speaks of more than taste; it is the declaration that those he loves will be nourished in body and spirit. Just as a shepherd ensures his flock is well-fed before nightfall, so must a host ensure his guests leave not in hunger but in gratitude. A meal shared is a memory planted, and the table spread wide becomes an altar of unity where all differences dissolve before bread broken and wine poured.

History gives us shining examples. When King Henry VIII sought to display his majesty to France, he held the Field of the Cloth of Gold, where fountains flowed with wine and tables groaned beneath roasted meats. Though politics played their part, it was the lavish feast that spoke loudest, declaring power, wealth, and goodwill. And yet, as Richardson’s words remind us, the essence of such grandeur lies not in gold or jewels, but in the simple joy of a good meal shared—be it humble sausages or heavenly pudding.

Therefore let it be taught: true hospitality is not measured in delicacy, but in abundance, warmth, and sincerity. To feed the people well is to honor them, to show them they belong, and to weave bonds that endure beyond the day of celebration. In Richardson’s hearty vision lies a lesson for all generations: that no guest should depart hungry, and no feast should be remembered for its want. For in giving bread, we give love, and in giving plenty, we give joy eternal.