And, Lo, They Brought Forth to the Potluck a Bucket O’Chicken
By: Andrew Donaldson
Tags: Community, Food, Culture

And, Lo, They Brought Forth to the Potluck a Bucket O’Chicken

Potluck is a tapestry of oneness. Except for that big bucket of KFC chicken sitting right there.

It is one of the most sacred and beloved rituals of a gathering of believers, yet is not official doctrine no matter how dogmatic folks will be about how it should be observed. The gathering of a family that hinges around it, depends on it, and thrives on it despite that family having only unspoken and unwritten rules about it. Organizations from the benevolent to the Machiavellian rely on their members’ understanding the mandatory nature of participating therein to keep things on track at their meetings and fueling their plans for dominating the world with whatever cause they are dedicated to. It is both the hook to reel in new folks and the line that keeps them from straying too far away afterwards.

And yet we, as a society, couldn’t find a better term for it than potluck.

It’s a wholly unsuitable term for something serving as the lynchpin to so many important things. Rising from the Middle Ages where an unexpected guest would have to content themselves to whatever was left simmering over the fire — “the luck of the pot” — the term has stuck in the English vernacular and American cultural landscape. But communal eating has obviously been around since more than one human sat down to eat something. It was inevitable that with only so much food and always so many mouths there would become some type of self-regulatory system of sharing.

While we have to be thankful that…actually we need to caveat that with “mostly” so let’s try that again…

While we have mostly evolved from killing each other with pointy sticks and rocks over not sharing food around the primitive campfire there are still some accepted conventions and decorum to a potluck meal, fellowship meal, pickin’, gathering, love feast, Jacob’s meal, hotdish, covered dish, fuddle, or whatever it is called amongst you and yours wherever you are. Most cultures have traditions of varying levels of hospitality, but almost all of them that don’t involve executing outsiders on sight have sharing of food embedded in them. So if feeding strangers is widely accepted as a basic human function, it stands to reason that “don’t come empty handed” would become a natural self-policing next step to people who are already communal.

People within a community are supposed to know what to do, how to act, what the dos and don’ts of said community are. It’s right there in the name, after all: Community. Sameness. Togetherness. Particularness. Oneness. Kumbayaness. Such is evident when the potluck is laid out on tables for the masses to pass by and fill their plates. A checkerboard of variation that nonetheless has a uniformity and eclectic beauty to how everyone’s different contributions come together. Crockpots, casserole dishes, Corningware, foil pans, all lined up ready for service. The manifestation of the community’s oneness evident in how they observed the unspoken rules of preparing food, not coming empty handed, and making sure everyone would be overwhelmed by the culinary excellence proffered forth. There would be an overjoyed person to ask the question “Who made this?” while the responsible party feigns humility briefly before launching into a detailed breakdown of how such a miracle was indeed done by human hands. It’s a tapestry of oneness.

Except for that big bucket of KFC chicken sitting right there.

Now, the fine folks over at Bon Appetit have these dos and don’ts for a potluck, yet the cardboard vessel with 16 pieces of the Colonel’s finest cannot be found among the “make it a theme party” or “Don’t assume you’ll get oven space” and definitely not the “go veg” insistences. On the plus side, the exhortations to “think outside the stove” and “NEVER bring a crudite tray” are covered. But it isn’t the magazine writers and editors that are the issue with rolling into the potluck with a bucket of chicken under your arm.

No, all concerns and anxieties over not coming empty handed have been traded for the judgemental stares at what is in your hands, or more specifically, what your hands did not prepare outside of leaning out your vehicle window at the drive through. Folks who spent time toiling to bring forth their best for the betterment of the community and the completely incidental and unexpected praise said community would lavish on them for doing so glare and judge. The folks partaking must now weigh those stares, and do the societal math in their heads of risking Original Recipe on their plate among friends and loved ones best offerings of love and service. After all, they have to live with these people, and wounds over offered food not accepted with the appropriate amount of thanksgiving and wonderment could have repercussions.

Photo by Andrew Donaldson

But are such judgements fair? Surely not all are blessed with the ability or inclination to work wonders in the kitchen. How harsh a penalty, if any, should fall on the person who knows to not come empty handed? Either through the tyranny of time restraints or the lacking of any culinary ability whatsoever, they left the task of providing sustenance to the 11 herbs & spices and “hand breading of a certified cook.” Or, at least, whoever it was that answered the manager’s frantic calls for shift coverage on a Sunday.

Is Bucket O’Chicken person really so bad, in trying to still participate in community while avoiding the proverbial death by sticks and stone of the masters of the fires who are better versed in feed the masses than they? Should not this menial effort still be accepted by so great a cloud of witnesses to sit, and dine, and enjoy fellowship expressly because of that effort, not just in spite of it? What great sin has been committed, other than the transgression of not being sufficient in the eyes of those whose own motives in participation are — at best — multi-layered?

What does community mean at all, if one cannot walk in with their head held high and plop down a bucket of KFC — which nearly all carnivores present would in any other circumstances be happy about — and feel as though the demands of honor and contribution have been satisfied? They came, they saw, they participated, they ate. Is that not the goal of the potluck? Is not the KFC bucket as close to the modern day, big business, fast food dependent, American palate version of a pot as you can get without leaving your vehicle?

It’s “luck of the pot” and folks should count themselves as such to get such vittles most of the world would be happy to have and too many go without. But it isn’t luck, it was the deliberate action of a brave soul who knew their own limitations but did not want to let their friends and loved ones down. So they sally forth to acquire acceptable food at a reasonable rate that can feed multiple people without any of those fancy chafing dishes or extra accoutrements that impose upon the hosts. That isn’t luck at all. It is love. It is being part of a community, even if you botch the execution and suffer the scrunched-up noses of disapproval of the potluckeratti who deem themselves master artists in the medium.

If you give someone a fish, you feed them for a day. If you teach them to fish, you feed them for a lifetime. If you eat their KFC chicken at the potluck while thanking them that brought it, and offering to teach them how to make fried chicken at home, you’ve made the entire world a better place. And nothing this side of 11 secretive herbs & spices that you didn’t have to make yourself is better than that.