My earliest memory of a potluck is my father nudging me at a 1970s neighborhood get-together. He pointed at the punch bowl where a runny-nosed kid was fishing orange slices from a Sprite and sherbet mix, sucking the juice out, and tossing the peels back in. It didn’t occur to us to leave because the whole house might be contaminated. We just didn’t drink the punch. Maybe it’s pandemic aftershocks, but nowadays it seems like people are giving this Southern tradition the side-eye. My friend Laura in Georgia says of communal meals, “I avoid mayo-based dishes that sit out a long time. If it looks like some meat is hiding in the dish, there probably is, and I avoid it. I avoid food from a nasty kitchen; having said that, I don’t know anyone with a nasty kitchen.”
Cats in a kitchen are a big hygiene concern for some people, although I don’t know why. I’ve lived with cats for most of my life, and I’ve never seen one mistake a graham cracker crust for a litter box.
Other potluck phobias include but are not limited to: unwashed hands (“Norovirus, party of forty”), sick cooks (“If one of us has it, we all have it”), unknown cooks (“The secret ingredient is Spanish fly”), and salmonella (“How long have those grape jelly meatballs been sitting in a Crock-Pot in the wayback of her station wagon?”).
My sister, an Alabamian living in Pasadena, California, where potlucks to welcome new families are a very big deal at her kids’ school, says, “I assume everything has a booger in it.”
But none of this concerns me, because every time I’ve gotten food poisoning, it’s been from a restaurant, not a bring-a-dish party in a church basement or on Oscar night. I’m of the mindset that you must “build up your immunity,” which also explains why I’ll barefoot it through airport security.
I’ll tell you what you do need to fear at a potluck: duplicate disasters (twelve broccoli casseroles—for God’s sake, put someone in charge), crossing boundaries (Aunt Joy brings the strawberry cake; don’t challenge the status quo and wage a strawberry cake war), a plastic-platter graveyard (masking tape and Sharpie your dish if you ever want to see it again), and store-bought judgment (get over it; a Domino’s pizza, a bag of oranges, Kroger’s cookies, and a six-foot sub get eaten as equally as you-know-who’s homemade potato salad).
If you really want to save the day, bring cups, napkins, trash bags, or ice.
And do keep your health hang-ups to yourself. Nobody wants to hear that there’s a dog hair on your deviled egg. Nobody wants to see you Purell yourself fingernails to elbows like a surgeon preparing to make the first incision in a baked Brie. COVID tests are not party favors. If you’re uncomfortable at a potluck, mind your manners or stay home.
Because potlucks are the water-park lazy rivers of cuisine. You know what you’re in for. They can be crowded and unpredictable, and there’s always a baby in a diaper, a loose Band-Aid on a foot, or a lady with a coozie and something to prove. But you grab your Dixie disposable plate and get in line at the buffet just as you grab your inner tube and you get in that weird warm water. You go along to get along.
