My Big Fat Demon Slayer Wedding

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My biker witch grandma shut down her Harley and pulled off her helmet, letting loose a tangle of long, gray hair. “You need help, Lizzie Brown,” she said, as if I were the one sporting a flaming skull do-rag, rhinestone-studded riding glasses, and a brand new Ride It Like You Stole It tattoo.

I snorted. “I’m not the one making us late.” I pried off my riding gloves as she blithely hitched her leg over her motorcycle. Shaking my head, I watched her amble toward a bohemian farmers market set up on the side of a country road. It was as if it sprang from the earth between two California strawberry fields.

There was nothing to the place—a stretch of sandy soil in front of a half-dozen or so colorful tents. A mishmash of tables held everything from broccoli to kiwi, mixed in with dozens of kinds of jams, a healthy display of pottery, and a few more specialized booths.

“This better be important,” I said, finding my sunglasses in my back pocket.

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