The Joy of Potlucks

pot·luck

/ˈpɒtˌlʌk, -ˈlʌk/ Show Spelled[pot-luhk, -luhk]   - noun

1. A meal, esp. for a large group, to which participants bring various foods to be shared.

 

 

To most church-going folks, particularly in the South, the term, "potluck" conjors up all sorts of reactions.  For women, it usually means a Saturday night or early Sunday morning, or both, of cooking, preparing enough food for a small army.  For the kids, it means a seemingless endless line of food, an opportunity to pile up the plate and have both mashed potatoes and mac and cheese, a combination  your mother would never let you have at home, and a chance to eat a whole fried chicken breast.

 

I am not sure where it is located, probably somewhere in the minor prophets, but I believe it is scriptual that you have a potluck on the fifth Sunday.  We've been doing that as long as I can remember, and more than likely, will continue to do that well into the future.

 

There is a catfish restaurant in Jonesboro that boats of having a 65-foot food bar.  Most church potlucks can boast the same., and the food is so much better.  It is a well-known fact that everyone born south of the Mason-Dixon line knows how to cook adn cook well.   I am 53 years old and I can honestly say I have never eaten anything prepared by a GRITS (Girl Raised In The South) that wasn't good.  It probably has something to do with all the butter and bacon grease, but that is another story.

Depending on the lay out of the particular church, the pleasant aroma of southern cooking can overtake a congregation before the preacher gets to the second point of his sermon.  Realistically, he might as well quit there, because everyone is thinking about chicken and baked beans and homemade rolls, and all of those desserts.

Oh the desserts.  We had one lady where I attend, Wilma Powers, who made without question the best rum cake in the world.  If you took a slice you had to turn over your car keys.  Just something wonderful about a rum cake that squishes when you put your fork to it.  There is another woman where I attend, Verna Dudley, who usually brings about two dozen fried pies of varying type.  It is not uncommon (I should know, I am one of them), for folks to go through the dessert line first just to make sure they got one of her fried pies.

But back to the main courses.  There will be ham and roast beef, perhaps some brisket and a pork loin.  There will also be several boxes of Kentucky Fried Chicken, that are usually picked through by the time I go through, with just a few legs or wings left behind.   There will too many casseroles to mention, including some you will stare at for several minutes wondering what lies beneath that cheese or cracker topping.   I will be earnestly seeking out the hash brown casseroles, a personal potluck favorite, hoping there will be some left, including the tasty crispy topping.

 

Pass the dozen or so  crock pots full of green beans and other veggies, near the end of the line as if it were an afterthought, will be the slaws and salads and deviled eggs  I have never seen a deviled egg at a potluck with an actual deviled egg on it.  They are are always clean by the time I go through.   Sometimes I wonder if the person just brought an empty plate and laid it on the counter in line.

After an hour of eating, and talking, and laughing, the women, and some of the men will start picking up their nearly empty platters and bowls for the trip home.  Men will start folding up chairs, putting tables away and take out the crash.   Those not involved in one of these activities will be saying to whoever will listen how they need a nap.

We are having a potluck following worship on Sunday.   I wouldn't miss it for the world.

 

Here Comes the Sun

It by no means is spring yet, but the sun is shining brightly in Pocahontas today and the temperature is pushing 50.   It is as my son Barclay would say, an absolutely glorious day.

The sun feels warm, and baseball is just around the corner.  Life is good!

Snow is a Four-Letter Word

I really have no one but myself to blame.  From the summer of 1995 until the summer of 1998, I lived i the beautiful, tropical city of Naples, Fla., on the warm shores of the Gulf of Mexico.  It spoiled me.  In In the three years I lived there, we had one morning below freezing, and that was only for about 30 minutes.  The coldest daytime high  temperature in the three years was 54 degrees.  You can see how one could get used to that.

I was never a big fan of winter growing up, and when I left St. Louis for Florida, and experienced the lack of winter on the southwest shores of Florida, my disdain for all things winter grew.

But good things never last.

I moved back to St. Louis for a year, and then on to Pocahontas in late 1999 when I married Marilyn.   While the Pocahontas climate is not as harsh as that of St. Louis, as we have seen today, it does snow here, it does get cold, and as we saw in 2009, we do get ice storms.    Anytime the weather turns cold or it starts to snow,  I always ask myself, "Why exactly did I leave Florida?"

I guess I have said it enough that everyone I know is aware of my hate for snow and winter.  I posted something on Facebook this morning about the snow being on the way and not being amused.  My friend Deshea tried to cheer me up and said she was dreaming of warm breezes and sandy beaches.    I went a step further and said, "'I'm thinking 80 degrees, the beach, the sound of the waves, a warm, gentle breeze in my face and sand between my toes sounds pretty good right now."   Others agreed.


When I went to the bank at noon, Jaunita, one of the tellers greeted me and said, "I would ask you how you like this weather, but I know how you like this weather."  Mel, another one of the tellers, came in a minute later and offered a cheerful, "how do you like the snow Dalton?"


Then to top it off, I get a text message from Kathy Scott, the wife of Tim Scott, who is the owner of the local radio station and one of my bosses.  Kathy texts, "I'm dreaming of a warm, tropical place, somewhere I haven't been before.  Where the sand pebbles glisten, and no one listens to hear school closings 'cause of snow."  

Oh, and I forgot to menton that one of our minsters at church, Stan Little,  decided to rub it in in a rhyming sort of way, "Oh the weather outside is frightful but Mr.Sullivan sounds so spiteful but insted of ME saying Whoa, I say let it snow, let it snow, let it SNOW!"

It's great to have friends.

Just in case there is any confusion, let me repeat  myself.  I don't like winter, and it would not bother me if I never saw snow again the rest of my life. 

Why exactly did I leave Florida?

Goalkeeper for hire

For most of Barclay's life, he has been a lot like me, a baseball fanatic.  It would be othing for the two of us to have detailed conversations in the middle of winter about middle relief pichers and backup infielders.   Baseball was, and still is, our passion.

Once he started school at Georgia Southern, he was introduced to the world of intramurals.  Now instead of just playing baseball and softball, he was playing other sports as well.  He has developed a particular fondness for soccer, both indoor and outdoor, and has acquitted himself quite well as a goalie, or "keeper" as those who play the game say.

Yesterday afternoon he sent me the following text message.  "Someone I don't know just sought me out to play keeper on their soccer team!'   That was quickly followed by, "Insane, right?" and "Apparently I left some mark!"

One of the basic needs in life is to be wanted, and out of the blue, someone, who was impressed with his goaltending skills wants him to play keeper on his team.  Needless to say, he was pretty pumped, and needless to say, I am happy for him.

Festive Chicken

Martha Ackmann, my high school journalism teacher (who I learned a lot from) has a thing on her Facebook page entitled "Signs I Like."   It is full of off-beat and peculiar real, honest-to-goodness signs that are good for a chuckle or a scratch of the head. 

This past Sunday afternoon I saw one of those signs that made me scratch my head.

While heading west on U.S. 72 from my mother-in-law's home in Florence, Ala. to our home in Pocahontas, Ark., Marilyn and I passed through the city of Corinth, Miss.  Most of the town sits along the highway, so you pass by nearly every fast-food restaurant known to Western civilization.

As we were about to pass a KFC, I couldn't help but do a double-take as to what was written on the marquee.  It read, "12-piece Festive Chicken Dinner."

What is a festive chicken?

Does it mean the dinner is served with only meat of happy chickens?   For that matter, does it mean they have "Unhappy Chicken Dinners?"  I mean, is there a chicken farm somewhere in Wilkes County, N.C., or Tift County, Ga. that only raises happy chickens?  Do they have organized sports and group hugs?  Is there feed dipped in Jack Daniels?  What makes a festive chicken?  Maybe the legs and thighs are a little more plump from dancing because they are so happy.  It is really a mystery.

If anyone knows the origin of festive chicken, please leave a comment following the blog or email me.   I really do want to know.

"The Clayton"

As most of you know I have two sons and am quite proud of both of them.  Barclay is 22 and is a senior at Georgia Southern University, while Clayton is 19 and a freshman at Georgia Highlands JC.   They are both smart kids and I have no doubt they will leave their mark on society.  In fact, Clayton has already made his first mark, which I will get to in a few lines.

When I am asked what the boys are majoring in, I proudly say that both of them are majoring in political science.  Invariably, the response is something along the line of "Does Barclay want to teach or go to law school?", and is then quickly followed by "I can see Clayton as a politician."   You to Clayton, everyone is a friend, or should i say, a potential voter.

Unlike his brother who decided to move off to go to college, Clayton decided to stay home, go to a junior college and save some money.  Even though he is a freshman, he has gotten in a routine.  His  first semester classes ended about 12.30, so as soon as classes were over, he would head to some local establishment there in Cartersville for some lunch.   Frequently, that would be "Tacos and Subs", located on Tennessee St in beautiful downtown Cartersville, Ga.

When I was in Cartersville for a visit in early October, Clayton took me for lunch on a Friday afternoon.   The menu is all over the place, on a board above the window where you order, and down the side.  There is also a little notebook that has color photos of their tasty entrees, which tell you what each item is to help in your ordering.

Ok, this not "Tavern on the Green", but it does a brisk noontime business.  Clayton ordered something, I don't remember what, and helped me with my selection.  When we received our food, we went and sat down and enjoyed our lunch.  Two of the waitresses sat down with us, and they proceeded to tell me what a fine son I had.  I'm thinking Clayton had told them he was bringing his Dad in, so say something nice about me, which they didn't need to do, but was nice to hear anyway.   We had an enjoyable lunch, and I agreed we needed to make a return visit on my next trip.

This past week Clayton called one afternoon, which in and of itself it not unusual, but his news was.  He said he now has a dish named after him at "Taco and Subs".  I was surprised, and asked what the dish was, which was kind of a silly question since he was going to tell me anyway.

Well, "The Clayton" is a burrito.  You take one large flour tortilla, add meat, cheese, lettuce, onions and jalapenos, then fold it up like a burrito and put on a plate.   You then pour chili over the burrito and add more shredded cheese.  Thus you have, "The Clayton".

I'm 53, and I'm not sure I have anything named after me, but Clayton already has a burrito named after him at an established restaurant.

So if you are ever in Cartersville, Ga, stop by "Tacos and Subs", on Tennessee Street and have "The Clayton", and let me know what you think.

It is all Facebook's fault

This is my first attempt at a blog, which means I guess I have accepted this is the 21st century. This may also be my last attempt at a blog.

I discovered Facebook through my two sons a couple of years ago, and that has worked out pretty well.  I have reconnected with a lot of old friends, which has reminded me a lot about the value of friendship and keeping in touch with those who are important to you.

When we are kids and teenagers, most of us give very little thought to our future or growing up.  We think the good times will last forever and we will always have the same group of friends.  Friends from school or church or the neighborhood that you knew as well as your cousins in Texas or California.

But most of us head off to college, then move away to another city, and leave behind the people that were so important to us when we were 10 or 16 or 18.  I grew up in St. Louis, but went to college in Arkansas, and have lived in several places besides St. Louis since I graduated from high school in 1975.

Friendships that seemed so important at the time faded from memory, then ultimately disappeared , fogotten like last year's Christmas present from a far away aunt.  New friendships are made, new bonds are forged and our past is just that, past.

Ah, but through the wonders of Facebook, we are suddenly thrust back into our younger years, as friends whose names we only vaguely remember are suddenly wanting to be friends again.  You accept, exchange a few emails, reliving the good times you shared and what has happened in the 30-plus years since you last saw each other.  

Familiarity is a good thing.  Your favorite tennis shoes , your old baseball glove, that favorite pillow or afghan.  There is comfort there, there is peace of mind and security.

Resdiscovering old friends is like that, it reminds you of what you once were, what was once important, what helped forge your personality, what you once loved.    It gives us a sense of belonging to a certain place, at a certain time.

I kind of like this Facebook thing, and if nothing else, it reminded me of old friends who helped make me who I am today.