The four of us at an earlier dinner.
Not sure when, but I think it was a Cajun restaurant that had been recommended.
For several
years now, a group of four women (including me) has had dinner together once
every month or so. We are—ahem! elderly, me more so than the others, and we are
all interested in the arts. All three are old friends, though they didn’t all
know each other until a few years ago. They claim they first met at my annual
tree trimming Christmas parties, now a thing of the past much to my regret.
Pandemic threw a huge monkey wrench into our dinner plans. We are all cautious,
again me more so than the others. Each of us take masking and vaccines
seriously—one because her partner is more elderly even than I, another because
she is herself immune compromised, me because I’m an elderly scaredy cat.
We had
managed a dinner just before the Delta variant swept us all up and again
another in December for a birthday, just before omicron was a threat. And then
we were all hiding in our homes again. Two ladies—Kathie and Subie—came to my
aborted New Year’s Day party, but Carol stayed home out of an abundance of
caution. She, however, was the one subsequently exposed to Covid, and although
she tested positive, she was never sure she had it. Meanwhile I spent January alone
in the cottage when first Jacob and then Jordan had mild cases.
Finally
a week or so ago, Carol suggested we meet for pot-luck supper at my cottage—and
joked about how bold she was being to invite people to my house. The usual
juggling ensued as we tried to find a date that suited everyone. Tonight was
our potluck dinner, and it brings aa couple of thoughts to mind. The obvious
one is the good fortune of having four forty-plus year friendships—we literally
have grown old together. The ties that bind have lasted, though we have each
grown in different directions, developed new interests, etc. And yet, mostly,
we blend and share.
The
other is that potluck is an old-fashioned idea. As you know if you read this
blog much at all, I am increasingly interested in so-called American food, the
dishes that are considered passé now, the food of the fifties and sixties. And
I’d sure put the concept of potluck right up there with those dishes, although
I know it is much older and probably traces back through most of American history.
Especially as we all get healthier and sanitation conscious due to covid, I
wonder if both potluck and buffet lines aren't going the way of all good things.
As
hostess, I felt it was incumbent on me to provide the entrée, so I fixed a
chicken casserole, made with Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup. Cooking with canned
soups is a hangover from my growing-up years, and yet I have recipes I treasure
that call for mushroom, chicken, or celery soup. Lots of cooking snobs scorn
such cooking, but not me. Our appetizers tonight were sort of retro—vegetables and
dips, though the dips were not anything we thought of back in the day. There
was a herb dip—really herbal and really green, a cheese spread spiced with
pimiento, and a hummus with peppers (I avoided that). The crispy breads with Parmesan
would not have appeared at my growing-up table (we never had bread with
dinner). Salad was a tossed green salad—shades of my mom, though she never
would have added sunflower seeds, blueberries, and apple. I can just see my dad’s
face if he found a blueberry in his salad—he loved them, but all things in
their proper place.
And
finally there was dessert—a scrumptious fruit salad (with lots of raspberries
which is always a plus for me) and good bakery cookies. What struck me about
the meal was that it was a blending of the food from our young years with some
more trendy dishes from today. And maybe that’s what’s to be treasured about
our friendship—the best from the old days when we were young and full of plans blended
with whatever wisdom age has brought us and surviving despite diverse interests.
Want
that good, light chicken recipe? Look for the Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog
tomorrow. I plan to post my two favorite chicken casseroles. Meantime I have
taken two days from my novel—one to do taxes and today to make the casserole,
straighten the cottage and get ready for company. I laugh at myself because in
these tiny quarters I usually don’t do much to prepare for company—just ask a
couple of regulars—but today seemed more like an occasion, and I couldn’t wrap
my mind around much else. Tomorrow, back to the novel!
