A brief rumination on the potluck supper tradition, and how it has, unfortunately, changed over the years, and why.

How did it all begin? Were the cave clans having each other over for a bite? “Bring a dish that serves seventy-five—whatever you feel like fixing. Mastodon stew would be nice.”

Whatever its origin, the potluck supper has, in our lifetime, progressed rapidly from benevolent ritual of sharing to fund raiser before most of us realized what had happened.

If I had a nickel for every “dime a dip” potluck I’ve attended lately, I’d be a rich woman.

When I was a girl (some time after the cave clans departed from the scene), I went to church potlucks with my grandmother, who dragged me to everything that had anything to do with church, hoping for miracles by osmosis.

That sainted woman produced a deluge of unique casseroles for which she was noted throughout the county. Her specialties generally
involved beans—which I hated—so I tended to avoid those and concentrate on the desserts.

In those days, the ladies of the church and community vied fiercely with each other in a struggle to produce the tastiest dishes.

Before the widespread use of commercially canned goods and the invention of frozen food, everything had to come from the cook’s own garden and larder, raised by her own loving hands.


And what wonders those women produced.

There were always great mountains of fresh, herb-crusted, farm-raised fried chicken, succulent and sweet and bearing no resemblance to the mass-produced fowl we call chicken today; potato salads of all sorts, with garden-grown parsley and newly-blended homemade mayonnaise and grainy mustard; deviled eggs and bread-and-butter pickles and yeasty bread still warm from the oven.

And the desserts!

Did I mention the desserts? Lemon meringue and apple rhubarb and peach, apricot and berry pies to bring the meanest man to his knees; devil’s food cake and gingerbread and applesauce cake and spicy pumpkin breads—too much for a normal kid to resist.

Potlucks were made for kids. All that wonderful stuff right at eye-level for easy scooping, and grownups so busy visiting and filling their own plates they don’t even notice you’ve decided to eat dessert first, or that this is the fourth time you’ve made it to the serving table with your plate since the call came to dig in.


I have many happy memories of the great food at these group rituals, so it was with considerable sadness that I discovered after a long hiatus from potluck suppers that much had changed in my absence.

I fear the heart has gone out of them, and with it has gone the sense of community, the striving for culinary excellence, and much of the joy.

Potluck fare today relies heavily on canned, frozen and freeze-dried foods haphazardly prepared.

There is a sameness to the flavors and a disheartening predictability to the offerings. Most of the old favorites are gone, replaced by variations on the current fad recipe featuring Jell-o™ gelatin with Cool Whip™ topping, or frozen spinach and water chestnuts, or refried beans layered with olives, sour cream, canned salsa and Velveeta™ cheese.

I am ashamed to admit that I have on occasion generated a few of these uninspired dishes myself.

Why does this happen?

I know why.

The evil that has robbed us of good food, lovingly prepared by good friends, is time.

Nobody seems to have the time to cook anymore; to experience the joy we used to feel in doing something wonderful for those we value—spending long, satisfying hours in the kitchen, good smells enveloping us like a prayer; our minds always on the folks who would enjoy the fruits of our sweaty toil.

Perhaps even the valuing slips away as we become more isolated; less involved in the lives of our neighbors; our children; our community.

But this is not a good enough excuse, for as we all know by now, Martha Stewart wouldn’t be caught dead carrying a Tuna Surprise casserole to her neighborhood potluck supper.

We will simply have to take some time off work to prepare that homemade Fig Tart with Vanilla Crème Fraîche.

I’m sure the boss will understand.