A Piedmont Porchlight Story
Wednesday mornings always felt a little different at the Coffee Cup. Maybe it was because church folks started thinking about supper before they’d even finished breakfast. Or maybe it was because Wednesday has always been one of God’s favorite days for casseroles. Hattie came out of the kitchen carrying a nine-by-thirteen dish covered with aluminum foil. Curtis looked up from his bacon.
“What’s that?”
“My contribution.”
He leaned sideways, trying to peek under the foil. “What’d you make?”
Hattie slapped his hand away with the dish towel. “You’ll find out tonight like everybody else.”
“I was just makin’ sure it was fit to eat.”
She smiled. “You’ve been volunteerin’ for that ministry forty years.”
I stirred my coffee. “You know…”
“What?” Curtis asked.
“I’ve always figured church potlucks could end wars.”
Curtis blinked. “Jim… that’s about the dumbest thing I’ve heard all week.”
Hattie laughed. “No, let him finish.”
I took another sip of coffee. “You ever notice how folks act at a church potluck?”
Curtis shrugged. “They eat.”
“They do more’n that. They forgive.”
He laid his fork down. “Oh?”
“I’ve seen two women who hadn’t spoken in six months stand shoulder to shoulder over the dessert table.”
Hattie nodded. “Yep, I have too.”
“They’ll smile. They’ll compliment each other’s pound cake. They’ll ask about each other’s grandchildren. And for two whole hours… you’d never know they couldn’t stand each other.”
Curtis chuckled. “I reckon that’s true.”
“Course it’s true.”
“Nobody’s gonna start an argument while they’re holdin’ a plate with fried chicken in one hand and potato salad in the other.”
Hattie pointed her coffee pot at me. “Especially if Miss Louise’s coconut cake is about to come out.”
“Exactly.”
Curtis laughed. “I remember two deacons that disagreed about every blessed thing under the sun.”
“What happened?”
“They still carved ham beside each other every Homecoming.”
Hattie smiled. “My Aunt Evelyn and Miss Dorothy fussed for nearly ten years.”
“What about?”
“I don’t remember.”
“But every Thanksgiving supper they’d both ask if the other needed another spoon.”
I nodded. “That’s church.”
Nobody remembered the disagreement. Everybody remembered who made the banana pudding.
Curtis grinned. “You know what I like best?”
“What’s that?”
“Nobody ever says, ‘Pass the mashed potatoes.'”
“They don’t?”
“No.”
“They say, ‘Pass Miss Ruby’s mashed potatoes.'”
“Or Sister Helen’s deviled eggs.”
“Or Brother Harold’s barbecue.”
Every dish belonged to somebody. And somehow… that made the meal feel like it belonged to everybody. Hattie finally sat down for a minute. “You know what always amazed me?”
“What?”
“How the best cooks never bragged.”
“They’d just set their casserole down and walk away.”
Curtis laughed. “That’s because everybody else did the braggin’ for ’em.”
“‘Who made this?'”
“‘Miss Ruby.'”
“‘Well, I need that recipe.'”
“‘She won’t give it to you.'”
We all laughed. Curtis took another bite of bacon. “You know why there ain’t never any arguments at a church potluck?”
I shook my head. “Why?”
“‘Cause everybody’s mouth’s full.”
Hattie rolled her eyes. “That ain’t it.”
“No?”
She smiled. “It’s because everybody knows if you spend the whole supper fussin’… somebody else is gonna get the last piece of coconut cake.”
Curtis pointed at her. “Now that’s the Gospel truth.”
I looked out the front window. A couple walked by carrying two covered casserole dishes toward the church. “You know…”
“What?” Hattie asked.
“I don’t know if casseroles can change the world.”
She smiled. “But I have seen fried chicken settle more disagreements than some lawyers.”
For a little while, nobody said anything. The Coffee Cup was full of clinking forks and quiet conversation. Outside, the church bell rang once. Hattie stood and picked up her casserole.
“Well… I better get this over there before Curtis follows me.”
Curtis put a hand over his heart. “Hattie Lane… I’m shocked you’d think I’d steal your casserole.”
She looked at him over the top of her glasses. “I don’t think you’d steal it.” She smiled that little smile only Hattie could manage. “I think you’d claim your wife made it.”
Curtis threw his head back and laughed so hard folks at the next table turned around. I laughed too. Truth is… church potlucks probably couldn’t end every war. But if the whole world ever decides to give peace one more try… they might want to start with fried chicken… and let Hattie Lane bring the dessert.
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