Tangled Pot-Luck

Growing up as a preacher's kid, I've had more than my fair share of opportunity to attend pot-lucks all over the world. Pot-lucks, covered dish suppers, pitch-ins, whatever you want to call them, the concept is the same: everyone brings a dish to share and everyone eats. Nowadays people are more savvy about it and break up last names by letter of the alphabet and specify what kind of dish to bring, so we don't end up with too much Jell-O salad, but when I was a kid this did not appear to be the case.

Some places we lived, people took pride in their home cooking and pot-lucks were a gastronomic wonderland of simple, yet delicious foods and there just wasn't enough room on your plate. Other places we lived, it meant half the congregation stopped at KFC or Little Caesar's and got take out. In China, people brought whatever they had - a coveted bottle of Coke, a bag of fresh grapes, oranges (there were always oranges!), barbecued chicken feet, whatever. Some places we lived, my definition of "food" appeared to be different than that of some of the cooks. The only time I have ever in my life had food in my mouth that I just couldn't swallow was at a pot-luck where some very old socks were masquerading as green beans.

You learn the tricks of the trade: if it's got enough cheese on top, you can probably eat it; that "Famous Taco Salad" has not hot sauce on it, but FRENCH DRESSING, so warn your taste buds in advance; nothing, I repeat: nothing, encased in Jell-O retains its flavor or texture; beat the kids to the dessert table; avoid anything with tuna, especially hot tuna.

If you learn to follow your own simple guidelines, pot-lucks can be tolerable, even joyous affairs.

When the Chief Lou and I got married, I was appalled at his pot-luck behavior. He broke all of the cardinal rules of pot-lucks. He snubbed the potato and cheese casserole with the cornflakes on top and went straight for the fried chicken. He ate that mess with the scary pot-luck trifecta of Jell-O, Cool Whip and canned fruit. He passed over the fresh veggies and ranch dip in favor of the store-bought cupcakes with Day-Glo gobs of icing on top. Clearly, being raised a heathen, he didn't know about these things.

I have been sitting on my hands for the last few days to avoid posting in any public way about our nation's political process. Anything I would have to say about the specifics of anything is going to appease the people who agree with me and outrage those who don't. That kind of communication feels dishonest to me and there are any number of people out there who have already said it and said it better, so go read them. I want to think about pot-lucks. I want to write about casseroles and canned cream of mushroom soup. Does anyone ever actually make soup out of those cans? I think not. When I was a kid, I used to think those little gray mushrooms were boogers. I might still think that.

So, this particular nation takes pride in calling itself a melting-pot. (Mmmm. Fondue. Why can't it be 1973 so we can all hang out in groovy polyester and eat fondue and put our car keys in a bowl? I digress.) I think we're more of a pot-luck. Everyone brings their covered dish to the table. There's that one lady who brings that same casserole every time because she thinks everyone loves it when we all just quietly scrape our portions into the trash when no one is looking because we don't want to hurt her feelings because she's half-senile anyway. There's the guy who always, always, always brings whatever the grocery store deli has on sale that particular day, so it's hit or miss whether you want to eat it. There's the one woman who makes the most amazing salads and you have to get in line first or it will be all gone. There are the mystery dishes that look like one thing and taste like another: oh look, they put Miracle Whip in the chicken salad, I was not expecting a mouthful of cloying sweetness and chicken. There are the super creative dishes, the old standbys, the vile and frightening, the surprisingly delicious, and the "I'll eat it because I'm starving and there's nothing else" ones.

Here's the thing about pot-lucks: we don't go to them for the food, really. We go for the association, the sharing of a meal, the convivial choking down of casseroles. We all have our favorites, our distinct palates, our untouchable items, the things we have to spit into our napkins. But for each of us, those are different things.

I would not touch pot-luck fried chicken with a cattle prod. The Chief Lou eats as much as he can if it's there. I am especially fond of the cheesy potato casserole, the Chief Lou thinks it's a textural nightmare. And I hate him for it. Oh wait, no. I don't. That would be a silly reason to hate someone, wouldn't it? For expressing a preference? Well, I don't hate him, but I stand up and loudly complain that he's an idiot for not seeing the merits of cheesy potato casserole and he's probably a Nazi or a fascist or a baby killer or a socialist or something. Yes, that makes for some fun pot-lucks, doesn't it? Of course I wouldn't do that. That would be a level of obnoxiousness that even I have yet to achieve. No, what I really do is walk around gasping because people are clogging their arteries! eating small dead animals! there are horses hooves in the Jell-O! they don't even know what that is and they're eating it! It's bad for them! No one should ever eat that much canned soup and American cheese in one sitting! Also, obnoxious. Obviously.

So, every few years we pull ourselves up to the democratic table and everyone takes the tin foil off of what they brought and it's horrifying. It's disgusting and unhealthy and there are boogers - boogers, I tell you! - in most of it! And you have to watch people masticate, and listen to their conversations muffled by mouthfuls of what you thought was mayonnaise but is actually Miracle Whip (blech!), and you get to discover that someone for whom you previously had a lot of respect just ate fifteen cookies and a pile of mashed potatoes for lunch and you wonder how you'll ever be able to look at these people again. But then...

But then you look at your own plate. It was you who took all of the carrots off the veggie platter and didn't leave any for anyone else. You are letting a glob of dripping barbecued something run all over into your Asian cole slaw with the uncooked Ramen in it. You have taken a large dinner roll to conceal the fact that you have three helpings of that oddly fascinating French Dressing Taco Salad. You know it's the only time you would ever eat a dessert concocted from instant pudding and Chips Ahoy, but bless it, it's tasty in a way you'd never admit publicly. And you realize as you're looking at your plate that this isn't exactly an accurate representation of your diet. It's not full of your favorite things, nor is it completely balanced, but it works for now.

But look up from the plates now, it's not about the food. It's about this disgusting, belching, tooth-picking group of people. Our comrades, neighbors, our fellow citizens, coming together to participate in a shared something. Sure, if we think about it too much it makes us gag a little bit, but I guarantee, someone else is looking at your plate and gagging, too. Heck, I gag on half the things I try at a pot-luck, but that's part of the fun, isn't it? To taste how other people cook, to try out what other people think is delicious, to get a glimpse of what it might feel like to eat dinner at their house every day? Sometimes we taste and say "No thank you." Sometimes we can't even swallow it. Sometimes we are deliciously surprised. Sometimes we know which ones are "safe" and stick with those. Those are all different things to different people. That's what makes pot-lucks so great. A little something for everyone. But we're all sharing this meal together. Don't talk with your mouth full. Nobody wants to see that.

If it all becomes too intolerable and you can't find the joy in it, just remember these two simple things:
1. If you sit quietly and avert your eyes, the pot luck will end and people will soon go and watch football or take a nap.
2. Be glad you aren't in China, where someone always brings barbecued chicken feet.