The Pleasure and Perils of Potluck

“See you at 6 on Friday… “

Oh happy hurray: a dinner invitation!

“ …And please bring a dish to pass.”

Gulp. Another potluck. Another opportunity for surprise and delight, embarrassment and disappointment—or all of the above.

I didn’t grow up in a potlucking household. My mother didn’t trust anyone else to cook as well as she did. She planned every detail of her suburban Detroit dinner parties, selecting her serving dishes the night before and labeling them. The kitchen was spotless when the first guest arrived. All that made her a fastidious host, but an infrequent one.

I inherited her values. But soon after we moved Up North, a new friend sidled up to me as a lavish meal we had staged wound down. “You know,” she whispered, “if you never let your guests bring anything, nobody will invite you over because none of us want to do a whole damn meal.”

Aha.

I was nervous about the concept at first. But I’ve discovered that potlucking can be giddily spontaneous, planned on the sidewalk in front of the post office: “Busy tonight? Let’s all get together. Bring whatever you want.” And, relinquishing control of the menu to random luck is a great reminder that usually, all goes well in the universe. When it doesn’t, people will eat whatever shows up.

In my opinion, the host of a true potluck offers no instruction at all. Of course that means that guests who don’t cook will show up with a box of crackers and a stick of supermarket cheese. Or a tub of rocky road ice cream. Some hosts try to maintain control by assigning each guest a course: appetizer, salad, side, dessert and such. Even then, guests with a mind of their own will at the last minute discover last year’s rhubarb in the freezer and bring a crisp instead of an appetizer. More dessert for everybody.

Still, it’s a rare potluck that doesn’t include all the major food groups, and more. The biggest potluck I’ve attended involved close to 60 people, celebrating the brief return of a beloved couple who had moved south. (Potlucks can grow at the last minute.) In the hosts’ garage two long folding tables, covered with white paper, held three dozen dishes, including three green salads (two in big round plastic bowls), meat loaf, lasagna, smoked whitefish dip, beef stroganoff, baked beans in a slow cooker and baked beans in a metal pan, chips and crackers of abundant variety, pineapple upside-down cake and a cherry–whipped cream concoction.

I made one big mistake at that potluck: I failed to bring a serving spoon for my summer squash casserole. I made a worse mistake at another early potluck: I failed to tape my name to the bottom of my beloved antique yellow bowl. A few weeks later, when I realized I was missing it, I couldn’t remember where I left it. I hope it’s wellused in its new home.

The social etiquette of potlucks is tricky. Here’s some wisdom I’ve picked up in 16 years of potlucking:

• For God’s sake, prep your stuff before you get there. The host’s oven and stove will likely be busy. And even if you imagine a kitchen with huge counter space, don’t count on it to be empty enough to spread out your tiny plastic containers to beautifully plate your pâté with greens, four kinds of mustards, six kinds of olives, a couple dried fruits, plus gherkins and pecans.

• Every cook is fretting, eyeing the buffet and gauging the popularity of their dish. Be polite and take a little bit from each offering.

• Unless you can rave about everything, refrain from raving about anything. Worse, never shout, “Who made this terrific goop?” Everybody who didn’t will feel slighted.

• If you manage to discreetly learn who made the goop, do convey your delight, but very, very quietly. Ask for the recipe.

• Be cautious and label stuff fraught with an ingredient not universally beloved. I’ll bring two bowls of guacamole, for example, one labeled “Cilantro Si!” and the other “Cilantro No.”

• Bacon? If you love it, include it. The bigger the crowd, the more likely your veggie friends will find something to eat.

• If you’re bringing deviled eggs, make at least three per attendee. Not three halves, three eggs. There are never enough.

• No matter how much you want that last deviled egg, do not touch it until everyone in the room has loaded up once. You will be considered a rude city rube.

• If you’re watching the table and nobody has taken any of your kale-cranberry-coconut concoction, be bold and scoop a big serving for yourself. Their loss.

• Everybody’s favorite people are the ones who, at evening’s end, offer the leftovers of whatever they brought to whomever is left. Best: Bring a stack of plastic containers or a box of baggies to load up easily for others.

What with all their perils, potlucks are rich with surprise. Somebody brings sardines. Somebody brings asparagus you didn’t know they grew. Somebody brings bread from a grandmother’s recipe. A couple grow enough shiitake mushrooms on logs to bring a pie plate full of a dense, luscious mushroom dip. And your crazy 89-year-old friend offers mystery bites that turn out to be chocolate-covered roasted garlic. (I am not making this up.)

Susan Ager is a former Detroit Free Press columnist who lives in Northport and enjoys more than the occasional potluck. Susan@SusanAger.com