A Tale of Two Potlucks
A Tale of Two Potlucks
I love to cook! I think I always have loved cooking. It’s also something I’ve pretty much always been good at — decently good, at least.
By age 13, I was regularly put in charge of making dinner solo for our family, because we had a busy household, and I was more than capable. As long as the ingredients were in the house, I could figure it out!
From my early teens, as Thanksgiving rolled around each year, I’d sleep over at my Nanny’s house the night before, then wake up early on Thanksgiving morning to spend the whole day cooking with her. Sweet potato casserole, green beans with ham, macaroni and cheese, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, buttered rolls, cranberry sauce, pecan pies — the only thing I don’t remember ever helping her with was the turkey, and I was more than okay with letting her handle the bird!
During my college years, I began to experiment with new recipes, even coming up with a few of my own.
By the time Nathan and I married in 2012, I had a decent repertoire of meals that I could make by heart — I just had to learn to tweak them a bit, to account for differing palates and preferences.
Self-confidence in the kitchen is not something I ever lacked… that is, until someone made an offhand comment that shattered my confidence in my abilities, to the point that words like “we’re having a potluck” or “bring a dish to share” became my greatest fears…
The Potluck that left a bitter taste in my mouth
We were having a big celebration in honor of a friend. Lots of people I knew — and also, lots of strangers to me — were going to be there. Good Baptists that we used to be, we were doing it potluck-style, and I’d been tasked with bringing an entrée. For whatever reason, rather than bringing a tried-and-true dish from my repertoire, I decided to attempt a brand new recipe — one that I hadn’t even taste-tested before.
I bought all the ingredients, and mapped out how much time would be needed for prep and cooking, so that it would be ready just before it was time to head to the party. I boiled the pasta, made the sauce, seasoned and browned the meat, then stirred all the ingredients together. It looked and smelled fantastic!
But something went very wrongly when I got to the cheeses. I measured out the mixture of cottage, mozzarella, and ricotta into a bowl, then added herbs and seasonings… and then I stirred it all together.
As I was stirring, I thought to myself, “Wow, that has a really pungent smell.” I glanced back at the recipe, just to make sure everything was right; and that’s when I realized that I’d made a big blunder...
I’d accidentally added about three times as much oregano as the recipe had called for, and there was no simply scraping it out, at this point. It was in there to stay.
I didn’t have enough time to try again, nor did I have enough ingredients on hand. All I could do was finish preparing the dish, as-was, and hope it turned out okay.
When it came time to fix plates at the party, I watched anxiously as friends and strangers heaped spoonfuls of my pasta onto their plates, along with spoonfuls of a dozen other dishes. “Maybe it will be good. Who knows? Maybe it will actually be better this way. Just as long as it’s not bad, it’ll be fine. And besides, no one knows you made it…”
“Oh my god! Whatever you do, don’t get the pasta! It’s disgusting!”
Having apparently just taken a bite of my pasta dish, one of the party-goers announced loudly to a group of their friends who were approaching that end of the entrées table that my dish was the dish to avoid at this potluck.
I nearly cried. I wanted to leave. But then, everyone would know I was the culprit — the awful chef — the has-no-business-in-the-kitchen woman — the “Poor Nathan! He has to eat her food?” wife. So rather than leaving, I spent the rest of my time at the party pretending I didn’t hear and didn’t know…
I took a scoop of my own “disgusting” pasta, and I ate it. It wasn’t as bad as it had been made out to be, but it certainly wasn’t good.
The friend who sat next to me at dinner had also taken a scoop on her plate. I watched inconspicuously as she took her first bite. She didn’t react one way or the other, but I noticed, she never took a second bite.
I was sure, at that point, I’d made the worst dish of the whole event!
It was a simple mistake — a misreading of a single line of the recipe; but as far as anyone else knew or would know, whoever made that dish is a terrible cook.
I replayed the words I’d overheard in my mind, over and over again. “Oh my god! Whatever you do, don’t get the pasta! It’s disgusting!”
The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love it will eat its fruit. - Proverbs 18:21 (NIV)
After that night, I convinced myself that, barring my wifely responsibilities to help with the cooking at home — although, “poor Nathan” — I should avoid cooking for other people moving forward. Or if I did cook for someone else, it would only be a tried-and-true recipe.
I was never going to take a risk like that again, because my fragile ego couldn’t handle a second humiliation like the one I’d just endured. Those unkind words, carelessly spoken, had left me with a bitter wound, and one that would not soon heal…
The potluck with the sweet potatoes and the sweeter words
A couple of years later, while Nathan was working at our church, we were asked to participate in a staff Thanksgiving dinner, potluck-style. (Gulp!) Each person was supposed to bring a favorite Thanksgiving dish — mine being Nanny’s sweet potato casserole.
I’d made the dish with Nanny oh so many times before, but not in several years, and never successfully by myself…
“It’s going to be just like last time,” I remember thinking. “You’re going to bring the worst dish, and everyone’s going to hate it. And everyone’s going to know how bad of a cook you really are.”
I didn’t want to go. I certainly didn’t want to bring a dish. But I couldn’t figure out a way to get out of it — not without being dishonest — so, I started praying…
“God, I’m terrified. What if I make another mistake, and I ruin another dish? And what if someone says something unkind again? I don’t think I could handle it. And also — I know everyone in this group, and everyone’s going to know exactly which dish is mine. God, please don’t let me mess up again!”
I bought all the ingredients — and some to spare, just in case. And when that day rolled around, I followed my Nanny’s recipe to a T… except for one thing. For some reason, I had this strong sense that I should reduce the sugar this time, so I halved it.
While the dish was baking, I’m ashamed to admit I kept right on worrying the whole time… It was some oxymoronic combination of worry and prayer, like, “What if it doesn’t turn out? Oh, Jesus, I can’t do this! I don’t want to do this! God, I’m so anxious! Can You make it turn out okay, even if I messed something up? God, do You even care about things like sweet potato casseroles turning out okay? Oh, Christina, you’re being ridiculous…”
The oven timer went off, and to my relief, the casserole looked right, at least.
When we got to the Thanksgiving gathering, I quickly found an inconspicuous spot for my dish on the serving table, then began to mingle.
As we came closer to dinnertime, my stomach was a mad frenzy of butterflies. I got in line, like everyone else, but I was eyeing the door. “I could just leave now, and maybe no one would notice. I could say I wasn’t feeling well. It’s true, technically…”
I watched as several people in front of me scooped a spoonful of my sweet potatoes onto their plates. “Oh God, here we go again. I can’t… Please, God, don’t let it be like last time…”
I scooped a small spoonful as well, just so I could gauge how bad it really was. Then, I sat down at a table, surrounded by friends.
We gave thanks, and we began to eat…
The friend to my left took a bite of my sweet potatoes first. “Here we go,” I thought, bracing for impact.
“Oh my goodness!” she exclaimed, bringing her napkin up to her mouth.
My heart sank.
She finished chewing, then continued, “Who made the sweet potatoes?”
I kept my head down and my mouth shut. I wasn’t about to throw myself under that particular bus.
“Didn’t you make the sweet potatoes, Christina?” asked another friend who was sitting directly across from me, at which point all eyes at our table turned to me.
“I — um — yeah, I did. I’m sorry if they’re not any good! I’m not really that good at—”
“What are you talking about?” the friend to my left interjected. “These are the best sweet potatoes I’ve ever tasted!” At that remark, others at our table took a bite from their own plates, chiming in.
“Mmmm.”
“Yes — really, really good!”
Finishing another bite, the friend to my left mused, “You know what I think makes these so great? They’re not too sweet. You know, sometimes people overdo it with the sweetness, because it’s not meant to be a dessert — it’s a side dish. But you did it just perfectly! Truly, these are superb! I’ll have to get the recipe from you later...”
Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear. - Ephesians 4:29 (ESV)
Just like that, the bitter taste that had been left in my mouth all those years ago for potlucks and sharing meals and cooking for other people disappeared, and it was replaced with such a sweetness!
And you know what I’m convinced of? It wasn’t a coincidence that my friend commented on how the sweet potatoes were just the right amount of sweet. That “strong sense” that I’d had while cooking that I should halve the sugar — I believe that came from a good Father, who knew I needed a heaping dose of reassurance in an ability He’d given me a long time ago.
The same God whom I’d questioned, “Do You even care about things like sweet potato casseroles turning out okay?” did care, and He still does. Because it was never really about the sweet potatoes, for Him. It was about His child, and you better believe He cares about His children!
For years, ungracious words that had been spoken in front of me, spotlighting my failure, had stolen my joy for cooking and my confidence to cook for others — to the point that I’d allowed those words to keep me from offering to take meals to friends, even when I knew they had a need, because I didn’t want to subject them to my “disgusting” cooking.
But it’s incredible how all that was needed to restore my confidence and joy were gracious words of an equal measure.
My love for cooking was restored after that, along with the joy I find in cooking for others! And I’m so grateful for my friend, for her gracious words, and for how God used the perfect amount of sweetness in a sweet potato casserole to heal a bitter wound that had been caused by a stranger’s words.
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