A potluck. A small church. There is more food here than people. A cooler of iced tea. Casseroles out the front door. Coffee. Coke. Fried chicken.
I never met a potluck I didn’t like. Not even when I was in Kentucky last summer, and there was a casserole that allegedly had chunks of raccoon in it.
I love food, and people, and cholesterol. Combining all three makes miracles happen.
The fried chicken is nothing short of spiritual. My fingers are too greasy to type.
It’s euphoria on a short thigh. Lightly battered, golden brown, spiced with black pepper. I am crazy about fried chicken. In fact, you could say I consider myself a chicken enthusiast.
And this chicken is fit for company.
There is also a cream cheese dip made by an elderly woman named Miss Carolyn. It’s addictive. I’ve eaten three quarters of this dip, and am in serious need of Rolaids.
I ask Miss Carolyn what’s in this marvelous dish.
“It’s simple,” she says. “It’s called Cowboy Crack, my
grandkids love it.”
This potluck is attended by people of all ages. A little girl plays piano. She is playing “Heart and Soul.” She’s been playing this melody for ninety minutes straight.
A church lady finally drags the girl away from the piano and assigns her to kitchen work, washing dishes. The girl is not happy about this.
Life isn’t always fair, kid.
The deacon at my table is an avid golfer. He is talking about golf even though I told him I don’t know the difference between a five-iron and a duck-hooked double bogey.
He keeps talking just the same. So, I’m smiling, nodding, and willing myself to spontaneously combust into flames. I have always thought spontaneous combustion would be a dramatic way to go.
I take my leave. I go for seconds on the buffet line. Namely, I…