Potlucks May Be the Death of Me

“What’s the matter with potlucks?” My friend laughed.

Um, where do I start?

How about the part where there is never anything to eat?

Nothing.

Instead of enjoying a nice, warm dinner on a plate, you get to embark on an epic journey.

Like a hobbit.

If Frodo had four kids.

And one of his mini hobbits could never, ever, not for all the Halloween candy in the world, find his shoes.

Nope, instead of eating an well-composed meal, you get to pack up your kids, rouse your husband out of whatever home improvement project he’s decided to immesh himself in 15 minutes before you’re supposed to BE at the potluck and of course, you gotta bring your own covered dish. The one that’s too hot to hold, drippy as the day is long and sliding all over your trunk. The ride to the potluck is like a reverse lottery. Will the sauce stay in the pan this time? Will you open the trunk to reveal a juicy mess that no amount of carpet cleaner—however promising the advertising may be—will ever get out entirely. Your van smells like sweet and sour meatballs now, Sheila, and that’s how it’ll be. Forever.Well you can see some of the best vacuum cleaners at https://allgreatvacuums.com/best-hepa-vacuum-cleaners/.

Well there are lightweight vacuum for elderly people which are very easy to use  and efficient for cleaning.

Once you arrive, you can forget pleasant greetings. Nah. Because you’ve got a hot mess in your hands, literally.

Start by figuring out where your offering goes. This means hunting down the host. Is there even a host? “Where should I put this?” you ask. That’s all you can say because “thank you for having us” doesn’t address the question of your very heavy casserole pan.

After you do a few arm stretches and apply a touch of aloe to the burn mark on your right forearm, you line up. With your kids. Sometimes this is even more fun because you get to explain WHY we are standing in line instead of sitting down to eat, like people.  

Another fun part of waiting in line for food is scanning the horizon like a sailor on the verge of scurvy. Just praying for something recognizable in the labyrinth of weird dishes ahead. All while balancing your plate. All while also balancing your kids’ plates.

“No, just wait.”

“Yep, it’ll be our turn soon.”

“I know you’re hungry.”

“No, I don’t know what that is.”

“Hmm, looks like some kind of salad.”

“Yep, another salad.”

“Don’t drop your plate.”

“Don’t drop your fork.”

“Careful of that drink!”

“Ugh, let’s go get a towel.”

It’s here! We’ve arrived at the buffet. Here, you narrate the options, trying to decipher what each salad could possibly be. WHY is the entire dinner made up of salads? It’s just a sea of impossibly small mixing bowls filled with…what? Tabbouleh? Is that salsa? No. Who would bring a lonely dish of salsa? Yep, it’s salsa. Without a spoon.

After you’re done scavenging for food, a new quest begins.

Where to sit. At a table? Nope. Not today.

Take your bets, everyone! Which child’s plate will hit the ground first? And will said child will cry as you try to put the roll—the only distinguishable item on the folding table buffet, of which there are no more of because only 6 were brought even though 22 people RSVPed—back on the plate? “No, that’s not dirt on your roll,” you lie. “It’s just a little spice. No! It’s not spic-y. Just, you know, flavor.”

It’s a nightmare.

Potlucks are the most anxiety producing eating experience I could possibly imagine. And somehow everyone else seems to love potlucks so much they keep inventing new reasons to have them.

When we’d just moved to North Carolina from Italy I once got roped into hosting a potluck for 30 people at our house for a group of people who I largely didn’t know. “Just provide the space,” they said. “We’ll take care of everything else.” I was eager to meet people so I took the bait.

Cut to a week later when a series of my emails with the subject line “Potluck Planning” went unanswered and my grocery list suddenly included pork shoulders, buns, sides, plates and ingredients for brownies. On the day of the event I was relieved when another family brought a full slow cooker of pork. But my favorite was the couple I’d never met before. They brought a half-used bottle of BBQ sauce. I am not kidding. The husband rang our doorbell with a bottle of Sweet Baby Ray’s in his hand, jiggling it as I opened the door.

That must have been a fluke though, right?

The second time we hosted a potluck at the house seemed destined to improve. That’s just math. Science!

By now I had four small children at home including a baby, toddler, preschooler and kindergartener. On the night of the potluck, I was wary of what to expect so at the last minute I listened to my gut and popped a bunch of chicken legs plus roasted vegetables in the oven. Just in case the other families—who said they were bringing “dinner”—had any trouble. And good thing. Of the two families who didn’t bail, one group of five showed up with a two-liter bottle of soda and a bag of chips. The other family of five made a batch of truly delicious candy bark. Unfortunately the whole dessert fit inside a two-cup Tupperware container. For 15 people.

Dinner is served, everyone! Potluck style.

Now listen, I love dinner parties.

I’m happiest throwing three pounds of pasta in my biggest pot and pulling dozens of fresh cookies out of the oven. Feeding people around a big table, everyone having a ball—that’s the stuff I live for.

But potlucks? Those are sneaky beasts.

I always feel like Charlie Brown with the football. Lucy promises to have a tasty spread. One that’ll be filling and enjoyable. A real treat she says—only to disappoint every time.

So as you might guess, we’re off potlucks. Most of the time.

But when it’s something we really can’t back out of, you can count on me to bring a main dish. It’s a security measure. This is not a drill, people. I’m packing meatballs or pasta and Wings Restaurant because at least I know my evening won’t end by going home just to feed everyone all over again. And whatever main I’ve got in mind, I’ll bring lots of it! I don’t understand this idea of bringing a small salad that serves 4-6 to an event for 20 or more people. Who is doing this and how can I convince them to stop?

Because there’s nothing I hate more than one bite of each little thing. That’s not a meal. That’s tapas. Another thing I loathe.

At a tapas restaurant, you only get one or two bites of each dish AND everything is served “family style”. Now I’m paying to survive on tiny rations of food that I don’t even get to choose. Sweet.

I once went to dinner with two new friends when I was pregnant with my fourth baby. My big night out! They were stylish and cool moms who wanted to try the newest restaurant in Durham, which turned out to be a tapas place. So there I was, perched on an extra tall stool, teetering aside the impossibly hip table. “Can I just order a dinner?,” I blurted out. “You guys can choose whatever snacks you like but I’m SO hungry!” They laughed and went about picking their thimbles of food.

But not me. I still remember that juicy pork chop served with mashed potatoes and a gorgeous broccoli rabe.

On a plate.

All mine.

The way food is supposed to be.