One Flew Over the Potluck Table

This essay appears in Silly: Stories in Ordinary Time.

If Janice Higdon asks me to “return thanks” at these monthly luncheons one more time, I swear I’m going to start attending the Unitarian Universalist church over on West Maple. When you’ve spent a lifetime watching people spoon Miracle Whip onto pineapple rings while repressing generational trauma, at some point you decide enough is enough.

Looking back on the calamitous day that was last Saturday afternoon at the First United Methodist church basement over on Drake Avenue, it was, frankly, inevitable. It all started when I tried to tell Marilyn Edwards that eight six-quart Crockpots plugged into one power strip with a red LED light-switch—flickering suspiciously—was an invitation to disaster. She just gave me side-eye and proceeded to plug in her Crockpot full of cream cheese corn dip.

I’d been attending these Ladies Auxiliary potlucks for years and they were always the same.

There was Mildred Johnson’s Cheesy Noodle Medley (“my signature dish” she would intone with more than a hint of self-satisfaction), Carol Ann Micetich’s “salad” that technically wasn’t a salad, given the sheer volume of marshmallows she always tossed in with wild abandon. Three competing green bean casseroles—none of which were ever labeled, all of which had the consistency of tapioca—were permanent fixtures on the table.

At the start of the buffet, right next to the stack of Corelle plates and silverware—dulled from countless cycles through the commercial dishwasher in the church basement kitchen—was a roasting pan of sliced ham swimming in oily water. Those ham slices were so overcooked, they could have doubled as tire patches.

Further on down the table was the dish of canned fruit cocktail that Lydia Haines brought every damned time. Would it have killed the woman to turn on her stove at least once? I’d bet even money if you ever opened up the oven on her slide-in range, you’d still find the owner’s manual and warranty—sealed and untouched in a plastic bag—along with the purchase receipt from True Value Hardware dated October 1976.

Next to the buffet table, you would always find the little corner table for the “book swap” that contained at least three dog-eared copies of Chicken Soup for the Quilter’s Soul as well as a paperback copy of All I Really Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten with the front cover torn off.

God. These women were nothing if not predictable.

Finally, let us not forget the canister of some generic brand Coffee Mate knock-off that I swear had been laced with Prozac—unbeknownst to everyone else—by our current Ladies Auxiliary Vice-President, Louise Krsnak. If it wasn’t, it should have been.

We all used generous spoonfuls in the watery brown decaf—served in those little plastic coffee cups with the disposable inserts—tasting faintly of despair. God loves the sinner, but He evidently despises a decent cup of coffee.

So, there I sat in that rickety metal folding chair that is standard issue in every Protestant church basement in the continental United States, wobbling back and forth on the uneven linoleum, hoping nobody noticed my silent struggle with pantyhose-creep. Janice shushed everyone, looked over at me, and said, “Marybeth, would you like to return thanks?”

Sweet Lucifer’s fistula.

Just once, I’d like to have her call on someone else, but since I was the auxiliary’s secretary, she seemed to think it fell to me. Well, here we go:

“Bless us, oh Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive…”

Suddenly, my rote recitation was interrupted by an ominous electric hum and crackle. We were dropped into pitch darkness except for the faint reddish glow of the “EXIT” sign over the stairway door and the ungodly green glow of that pistachio salad that Greta Perkins had brought.

The silence held for maybe three seconds before Marilyn let out a yelp that could’ve peeled paint. “My Crockpots!” she wailed, as if her fleet of appliances were children trapped in a burning orphanage. A chorus of gasps followed, and then the unmistakable thwack of a folding chair hitting the linoleum.

Someone—probably Carol Ann, who’s been known to panic over a misplaced Tupperware lid—had knocked over her seat in a blind scramble toward the power strip.

“Stay calm, ladies!” Janice bellowed, her voice quivering with the kind of authority that only comes from years of corralling church bake sales.

But calm was not on the menu. The darkness unleashed something primal in that basement, like we’d all been transported to a culinary Thunderdome. I heard the clatter of a serving spoon, then a wet splat—likely Mildred’s Cheesy Noodle Medley hitting the floor, or possibly someone’s blouse.

“Whose foot is that?” Lydia screeched, her voice shrill enough to summon bats. “Get off my bunion!”

In the dim glow of Greta’s radioactive salad, I could just make out Lydia swatting at poor Louise Krsnak, who was clutching the coffee urn like a life preserver.

Then came the accusations.

“If Marilyn hadn’t hogged the power strip with her blasted Crockpots, we’d still have light!” snapped Mildred, who I could tell was still mourning her noodles.

“Well, if someone hadn’t brought that glow-in-the-dark slop,” Marilyn fired back, clearly aiming at Greta, “we wouldn’t be stumbling around like moles!”

Greta, never one to take an insult lying down, retaliated with what I can only assume was a fistful of her pistachio salad, because a moment later, Carol Ann squealed, “It’s in my hair!”

The room erupted into a cacophony of shrieks, thuds, and the telltale sound of fruit cocktail hitting the wall. Lydia, in a rare moment of action, must’ve hurled her dish in protest, because the syrupy scent of peaches and maraschino cherries filled the air.

I stayed glued to my wobbly chair, clutching my plastic mug of decaf, wondering if this was how the Donner Party started. The chaos escalated until someone—bless their practical soul—found the breaker box. The lights flickered back on, revealing a scene that would’ve made Hieronymus Bosch green with envy.

Mildred’s noodles were smeared across the floor like a postmodern art installation. Carol Ann’s marshmallow “salad” clung to the ceiling, defying gravity. Greta’s pistachio goo was streaked across Marilyn’s cardigan, and Lydia’s fruit cocktail had painted the book swap table, giving Chicken Soup for the Quilter’s Soul a sticky new epilogue.

Janice, her face a mask of exhausted martyrdom, clapped her hands. “Ladies, please! Let’s clean up and salvage what we can!”

But the damage was done. The green bean casseroles had merged into a single, pudding-like blob. The ham, miraculously untouched, stared at us accusingly. And Louise, still cradling the coffee urn while holding the canister of creamer in her outstretched hand, muttered something about needing a “stronger prescription” next time.

I slipped out during the cleanup, stepping over a stray marshmallow and dodging Mildred’s tearful recounting of her noodle tragedy. Outside, the air was crisp, and Drake Avenue was mercifully quiet. I walked to my car, my pantyhose finally settling into a truce, and drove home, vowing never to return.

Why did I keep doing this? The same casseroles, the same books, the same flickering power strip. It was like signing up for a monthly nervous breakdown.

Yet, four weeks later, there I was, pulling into the church parking lot for the next Ladies Auxiliary Luncheon. I brought my usual deviled eggs, knowing they’d be overshadowed by Mildred’s inevitable noodle comeback. As I descended the basement stairs, I saw the same folding chairs, the same linoleum, the same canister of off-brand creamer—tan, eternal, possibly sentient.

Janice caught my eye and smiled. “Marybeth, would you like to return thanks?”

I sighed, nodding, because what else could I do? Some rituals, like bad casseroles and worse decisions, are just part of who we are. I trudged over to the dented aluminum coffee urn bearing a weathered masking tape label upon which was scrawled “Decaf” in black felt marker.

I picked up one of the tan plastic coffee cup holders, popped in a disposable insert from the stack on the table, and filled it with a brew tinged with the flavor of basement mildew and self-loathing.

I raised it as if proposing a toast:

“Bless us, oh Lord, and these thy gifts…”