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Potluck Predicamenets

One foodie's journey from neophyte to dynamite.

by Meghan Rathwell

I arrived with a plastic bag containing deli salads from Safeway. The social graces of my friends were admirable—but at potlucks people speak with their plates, and by the end of the evening the truth was plain to see. Amid the disarray of the empty platters and serving dishes, my two Styrofoam containers of potato and three-bean salad sat accusingly full.

Potlucks celebrate the occasion of eating. Not just eating, but eating together. Featuring a spread of old favourites, new foods, and good company, a potluck contains the ingredients for dinner party paradise. No need for matching dishes or enough chairs. Sitting on the floor with a plate balanced on your lap is a perfectly acceptable eating arrangement. Nobody eats what they don’t like or worries about using the wrong utensil. (This is a relief for me. Having grown up eating at a relaxed dinner table, I prefer to eat in non-stressful situations. Multiple forks, meals that come in courses, and minding my elbows still make me antsy.) Free from traditional table manners, potlucks allow people to eat at their own rhythm, as they would in their own homes.

With eating and seating out of the way, there is only one aspect left to discuss: the contribution. Accepting an invitation to a potluck implies a commitment to create a shared meal. The practised potluckee (definition: one who attends a potluck) shops, prepares, and plans ahead. But there is no one way to organize. After my first potluck I didn’t aspire to excellence; I simply wanted to advance from the deli salad stage.

I decided to try pizza. Having never made pizza, I may have made a hasty decision. Distracted by the toppings—the array of colours, textures, and flavours—my consideration of the crust was secondary. Without a rolling pin or a proper pan, I jammed a thick layer of dough into a dish. When baked, dough is meant to turn into its higher self—crust. Mine remained mostly dough, with occasional crusty patches. I decided to go ahead and add the toppings. Surely the dough would crisp when the pizza went back in the oven to melt the cheese…

Everyone loves pizza, don’t they? Knowing that made it all the more painful to watch my fellow potluckees try valiantly to eat my version. The dough expanded like a sponge, and the cheese affixed it to every corner and crevice of the mouth (I’d added extra to compensate for the inferior crust). I feared someone would suffocate while trying to swallow. It was reason to bow out of potlucks for good, but my determination to participate in the world’s greatest dinner parties didn’t let up.

Midway through university, I met a group of friends who raised the potluck bar. The calibre of their potlucks approached fine art: fresh dates came stuffed with goat cheese, and the mango salsa was homemade. I began to study potluck success stories. I noted that flavour, presentation, and freshness all do well at potlucks. Anything that comes from someone’s garden is immensely enjoyed. Finally, decadence in the form of chocolate always wins.

I don’t remember exactly how I discovered what would become my specialty, but it wasn’t without trial and error. I tried my hand at mains and produced a mildly successful spinach-like casserole. Desserts, which tend to require following a recipe, were and still aren’t my strong point (recall the pizza dough). And despite my love of soups, they can be a hard sell at potlucks as people usually focus on filling a plate.

I hit potluck gold when I discovered dips and dressings. Playful, sophisticated, and made of everything from herbs and oils to beans and seeds, dips and dressings represent the perfect accompaniment to all things yummy. Plus, they’re forgiving. Dips and dressings can easily be adjusted to taste. You can keep adding more lemon, extra parsley, or dashes of wine until the very last minute! If you’re still shy, keep in mind that a fresh pie, a sophisticated cheese plate, or a bottle of something sparkly will always suffice as an offering.

Regardless of what you bring to the table, potlucks celebrate the virtue of sharing. They are a tasty reminder of the value in breaking bread with our communities. After 11 years of potluck flops and fortune, I’ve learned two important things: the real “luck” is not in the dish but in the company you share it with, and three-bean salad is really quite easy to make.

Meghan Rathwell is a holistic nutritionist, educator, and writer who is pleased to be over her potluck stage fright. Find her at nourishingartscollective.com.