❝In all chaos, there is calculation; dropping glasses just to hear them break.❞
Full Name ; Rosamund DiMarco
Occupation ; Foodtruck owner
Faceclaim ; Troian Bellisario
“No no no, do it again!”
Every week it was the same order barked at a young Rose. Every week she was told that she was not enough, that she wasn’t doing it perfectly, thus leaving it to be completely wrong. ‘A lack of finesse’ she was deemed as having. It wasn’t Rosamund’s fault, what was she to do? Berating had become somewhat of a second conversation between her and her weekly ballet teacher. Every time that she was screamed at, she would simply try again. Persevere through the storm and try to better herself. Though the teacher was harsh, Rosamund understood that it was to make her a better dancer. It was to make her the best of the best, the crème de la crème. Even though there possibly was a kinder way to teach, it would not have taught her the resilience that she needed. Why come all this way through being put down, to only fall when your feet hurt a little? The way which her teacher had taught had been slightly unconventional, yes, but as Rosamund grew older, she began to understand her teacher more and more.
Until the age of sixteen, Rosamund’s entire life was ballet. Her parents would attend every recital, little brother irritated beside them. Another day of watching girls in tutus prance about. He didn’t understand it, the beauty of the dance, but that was okay. Rosamund didn’t mind that her brother – or any of her family – really understood it. She didn’t need them to understand it, she just needed them to accept it. It was on Christmas Eve of her sixteenth year of existence that her family were no longer required to accept it. The roads were icy, too icy to be out driving late at night, but her Nutcracker recital was the best one yet, and her parents wouldn’t have dreamed of missing it. In the back seat, she basked in the glory of her parent’s compliments, while her brother poked fun and pulled faces in the seat beside her. Despite the immaturity that her thirteen-year-old sibling displayed, she couldn’t get rid of the glow that emitted from her skin. Of the smile that was showcased proudly upon her face. It was during the point that she and her brother began kicking each other that it all went black.
Waking up three hours later, in a hospital bed that smelled of alcohol and a ward filled with childlike images on the wall, Rosamund knew. She just knew that she was done for, her career as a world renowned ballet dancer was over before it had even begun. And when she looked down to find a white cast binding her leg together, a tear rolled down her cheek. Her mother was at her side instantly, bathing her only daughter in an obscene amount of kisses. A croaky voice broke out from a prison of chapped lips, and the question on her father and brother’s location was posed. Her brother had abandoned her bedside for a soda, which hadn’t surprised Rosamund in the slightest, though the location of her father was still a mystery to the young girl.
Two weeks later, they buried him. A hole in the ground next to the one belonging to her paternal grandmother. Her mother broke down, wailing that it was unfair, while her brother simply stood there, refusing to move a muscle. Rosamund didn’t cry, she had lost so much in the past two weeks that it seemed redundant to still be crying by this point. All the tears within her had dried up, though they still left stains upon her cheeks. The day that she buried her father, her dream of becoming a ballerina was buried with him. Now six foot under, it was clear that she would have to find something else to do, and it was during a zombie phase of classes that she happened upon it.
Sophomore year was somewhat of a blur. At least after the new year. Everything seemed as though it was in slow-motion, almost. The days would pass her by and she had nothing to do. Nothing to say. Everybody understood, of course, though they treated her like a broken bird. A long shot away from the girl who could make a room light with her smile, and attended class every day with a colour-coded binder full to the brim of notes on the topic. There was one person who still tried, however. Still tried to retrieve Rosamund from the dark place in which she resided. “I lost my parents at your age.” The woman had told her. “I didn’t get out of bed for six weeks, simply refused.” Her home economics teacher was a woman of only twenty-five, with auburn hair and a constant smell of vanilla. “Try this,” An A4 piece of paper was handed to her, “It was the only thing I ate, too.” It was unconventional, giving Rosamund a recipe. She debated ripping it into shreds for a while, pondering the mere notion that someone could be familiar with the emptiness that she felt inside. Something told her not to, however, so at two in the morning in the midst of another insomniac night, she cooked.
Maybe it was the food. Maybe it was that she was the first teacher to actually talk to Rose. Maybe it was just that it was beginning to hurt less. Whatever it was, something had clicked within her that night. Nearing her seventeenth birthday, it seemed as though she was returning to the girl she was twelve months ago. It started with cooking the basics, before it evolved into developing recipes from a book. Soon, she was inventing her own meals. Hosting dinner parties for her family of three, laughing over a dauphinoise potato. Slowly the colour seemed to return into her eyes. Rose was growing to be a phoenix. Rising from the ashes of the girl she was, and becoming a woman to be proud of.
After consulting with her Home Ec teacher for seemingly weeks on end, each day growing more and more panicked at her future, when the letter came. The Art Institute of California would like to offer you a place at our San Diego campus. That one sentence allowed all the emotion from her weeks of anticipation to flow. Emotion that was still left from the death of her father and her prospected career were all culminating within her, leaving Rose to sob uncontrollably while she grinned at the thought of the future that would await her.
Even now, she isn’t sure how she got into catering. It started as helping out a college friend who was a caterer, and simply developed from there. After working with them for a year, learning tricks of the trade from her friend’s family business, Rose decided to set it out alone. Start her own catering company in Anaheim, promising a wonderful menu providing that she was allowed creative control. She would take away an element of stress from the wedding party, and wasn’t that what they were all there for? Her brother had come back from college with a business degree, and somewhere between the second and third drink of the night, it was decided that they would go into business together. His money skills and her cooking, they would be an unstoppable force. Everybody loves a family business, so DiMarco Dining was born.
On days that weddings aren’t needing her attention, Rose can be found inside of the truck. A white coat that usually ends up stained in whatever food that the siblings decided to fight in. Keeping the truck in Anaheim, Rose is able to live her own life while checking up on her mother, spending as much time with the woman as she could. Isla never remarried after the death of Rose’s father, so she knows that her mother must be feeling at least a little lonely. Whether she’s only there for an hour or whether she’s falling asleep in her high school bed, she likes to spend as much time as she can with her mother. Though she’d never say it to her mother or brother, Rose harbours a lot of guilt in regards to the death of her father, which is the entire basis for her needing all weddings she caters to go off perfectly. If they get only a short time together, then it is her duty to ensure they get off to a good start; if that means dragging the band up to the stage by the earlobes and reprimanding the DJ for attempting to knock yet another tray of hors d’oeuvres then so be it.
The Florist: The Florist is probably the kindest in the group and the most open to suggestion. For every wedding the Florist and the Caterer work together, it’s practically guaranteed that the food and the flowers will match perfectly, both in color and mood.
The DJ: The DJ can be a bit of a goof, always trying to get people on the dance floor at any cost, but sometimes their antics get them in trouble, especially with the Caterer. If they knock over one more dish doing the electric slide, the Caterer will serve their head on a platter.
The Server: No matter how prepared the Caterer thinks they are, the Server always proves them wrong by eating at least half a tray of appetizers before the guests even arrive. The Server can tend to make the Caterer’s life difficult, but once they hit the Caterer with their full out puppy eyes, the Caterer can’t help but sigh and wave them off to arrange the salads.
