Everyone
knows June is the month of strawberries, but here in the Wilds of North
Middlesex, it is also the month of potluck lunches and dinners, a time-honoured
tradition to mark the end of another year’s activities. Between us, Greg and I have attended at least
six in the last couple of weeks, and there are more to come ― some even sliding over
into July.
The
question always arises as to whether to have a true potluck or the modified
version. Apparently, a sign-up list is rarely handed around, as that would take
the fun out of it entirely, but the hostess sometimes offers to provide part of
the meal, hence, the modified potluck. However, so far this year, the normally
conservative inhabitants of this area have opted for the more daring true potluck.
This
has the usual unintended consequences.
People
seem to have their own speciality, like sauerkraut or meatballs or jellied
salad. I confess I am beginning to
rather like orange Jell-O with crushed pineapple, but please, not grated
carrots. I don’t know the last time I
had Ambrosia – well, not before the two opportunities I had to indulge this
month. It consists of coconut,
miniature marshmallows, fruit cocktail and whipped cream and counts as a main
dish. So does apple salad made with dream whip (the healthier choice, according
to the provider, than whipped cream).
Greg
and I always bring our Salsa Delight: a layer of cream cheese, topped with
salsa, followed by chives from the garden, if available, or green onions, if
not, and finished with grated cheddar. Our challenge is whether to spread it an
inch deep and a mile wide in the flat corning ware dish (my choice) or thicker and
less extensively ― and I might add, harder for
dippers! – in the two-quart casserole (Greg’s option). It’s a difficult
decision and, I feel, may unconsciously reveal something of the deeper nature
of each of us.
Anyhow,
we enjoyed three different versions of baked beans and the same number of meat
ball dishes at one potluck recently. The dinner was held out in the country in
a house backing onto a woods and bordered by a large field. Partway through the
meal, a coyote bounded across the field, and a while later about half a dozen
young coyote pups came running back in the opposite direction, followed by the
adult encouraging a slow-poke sibling.
I
wondered what they had been finding to eat. As it happens, the population of
stray cats on our street has seemed remarkably reduced from earlier head
counts. It crossed my mind, as I took a
second helping of Ambrosia, that perhaps the coyotes in our neck of the woods
are enjoying their own version of potluck.
In
any event, there is a knack to a successful outdoor potluck. It primarily
involves avoiding food poisoning. Recently at the Parish Picnic, aka the Sunday
School Picnic, we enjoyed two kinds of potato salad and various cold meats, but
not a lot in the way of vegetables – unless you count the 11 asparagus spears
wrapped in ham. Thankfully, insulated
zippered carry-ins, as well as the usual Tupperware, lined the picnic table in
the pavilion at Coronation Park.
Anglicans seem to have a container for every occasion.
My
enjoyment of the meal was dampened by an account of another potluck, a birthday
celebration the previous afternoon after which a number of attendees suffered
food poisoning. I found out later it was traced to devilled eggs. The degree of
upset was in direct proportion to the number eaten and the length of time which
had elapsed while they were being consumed. One devilled egg at the start
produced no symptoms; five consumed over the course of a hot afternoon … well,
it was not pleasant.
The
ladies of the Anglican Guild (i.e., the evening guild that meets in the afternoon) held their year-end do indoors last week. We
enjoyed what turned out to be a lot of fruit and veg – perhaps compensation for
their non-appearance at the Parish Picnic from two days before. Not wanting to
repeat the salsa too soon, I surprised everyone with seven kinds of raw
vegetables and a dip of my own invention.
After lunch, we began the formal meeting with a short devotional service. We use thin leather-covered chapbooks dated 1897 and published by “the Gazette in Parkhill,”
according to the flyleaf. I always enjoy the prayer in which we ask God to “pour down the continual dew of thy blessing upon him whom thou hast
called to minister in this portion of thy vineyard.”
The
“him” in question was absent at the time, being at a potluck lunch for his
fellow vineyard keepers in Clericus. However,
he did arrive later on ― just in time to be blessed
with a slice of apple pie provided by the hostess of the day, thanks to her
husband, a retired farmer whose pastry, I can say without a moment of hesitation,
is to die for.
*********
Potlucks
seem to be the same all over, as this tune by the Prowell Family of Kansas (and
YouTube) attests:
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