Category: Funny Business

The holidays are here and so are family gatherings, and that usually means various eating events. My most recent invitation involves “bringing a covered dish,” which brings me to today’s topic.

Now, I realize “bringing a covered dish” has been a tradition for almost as long as tradition has been a word. Also known as “potluck dinners,” “potluck suppers” and “Go help your Aunt Myrtle before she drops the vat of banana pudding on the driveway,” sharing grub in a communal setting is quite common. I’ve participated in these food fests so many times I can’t even count them.

But here’s the thing; I’m just not comfortable doing it anymore. I don’t know if it’s an age thing or what, but eating food prepared off-site and delivered in a dish with an aluminum foil cover is a big turn-off for me.

There was a time – many times, in fact – when I never questioned potluck dining. Hell, you could throw a hunk of bread in the air and I’d run up under it and try to catch it in my mouth like a dog. But alas, now I tend to overthink things.

For example, many years ago the place I worked would occasionally have potluck dinners, and I never hesitated to plop a big ol’ spoonful of green bean casserole, squash casserole or sweet potato casserole on my paper plate. Never asked who made it … never cared who made it.

And all of it was delicious. So delicious that I’d often stop chewing briefly and exclaim, “This is delicious!”

I imagined the squash came from a carefully tended garden, while the cheese was made of the finest Velveeta.

Green beans were expertly snapped by people who enjoyed doing such violence to green beans, and the fried onion toppings came directly from the Durkee family (probably delivered to the supermarket by the youngest Durkee, who was just learning the family business. I think his name is Dirk).

And sweet potatoes? Well, they had to be freshly picked from the nearest sweet potato tree before being squished up and smothered in cinnamon, brown sugar and chopped pecans.

My mouth waters just thinking about it (although in fairness I’ve had a drooling issue for the last couple of years so it could be just a coincidence).

Unfortunately, I just can’t do it anymore.

Now I pay close attention to the people who bring the covered dishes, and I begin to imagine what all took place during preparation.

Maybe the squash hit the floor and the cook, in an effort to pick it up, accidentally kicked it. As the yellow vegetable went tumbling across the sticky kitchen tile Tulip – the pit bull/toy poodle mix – picked it up and slobbered on it before it could be retrieved by the cook, who wiped it on an apron before cutting it up with a rusty pocket knife.

And green beans? I think back to my mother sitting on the couch snapping them, an unfiltered Pall Mall cigarette dangling from her lips while she made an odd, kennel cough-like noise.

As for sweet potatoes, those damn things are filthy – and no amount of apron wiping would get Tulip’s drool off of them.

Look, if you saw me bring a covered dish to a potluck situation, I wouldn’t expect you to eat it, either. I have two dogs and two cats plus I mindlessly scratch myself sometimes. I can’t say with certainly I always wash my hands after dealing with an itch on or near my nether regions.

So now I’m faced with a dilemma of having to go to a potluck dinner and bringing my own covered dish. Fortunately, I was not asked to bring anything specific, which means I can go to the nearest supermarket and get some kind of pie or cake prepared by the culinary staff.

How do I know these people are any cleaner that the homemade casserole bakers? I don’t.

But I will assume they don’t have a dog running around in their kitchen and that gives me a sense of peace. It also helps to see a health department score posted. If it’s 98 or better, I’m good.

If it’s 75 or below with a note that reads, “Raccoon activity detected in pantries,” I’m outta there.

As for eating at a potluck function, that’s really not an issue.  When you’re among a group of people, you can simply make your plate, be seen walking with your plate, and then set the plate down somewhere. Then you just wander off, and if someone does notice, you start a fire in a trash can and create a diversion.

Honestly, I wish I could go back to the old days of eating unvetted food. It was almost always good, I never once got sick, and I’m really missing out on some delicious homemade fare.

But I’ve already talked myself out of it now. And that means as soon as I’m done with covered dish obligations, I’ll head to the nearest fast food place and get a large serving of French fries.

Sure, one of the fries might’ve hit the floor before it made it to the container, but fortunately hot grease kills germs.

At least that’s what I choose to believe.

Tomorrow night, all the little Trick-or-Treaters will be dressed as witches, ghosts, goblins and telemarketers, and I’ll be reminded of the wonderful times I had as a child begging for teeth-destroying edibles. As you might know, I would often dress up as either a werewolf, Batman or Joe Namath, and had no desire to be anything other than those three iconic figures. Why?

I’ll tell you.

Werewolves are far and away my favorite mythological creature. They shapeshift into a wolf due to a curse or bite from another mythological creature that has shapeshifted into a wolf due to a curse or bite from yet another mythological creature that has shapeshifted into a wolf due to a curse or bite … you get the idea. There’s cursing and biting involved, then you sprout fur and foam at the mouth.

My favorite werewolf mask was based on the 1941 “The Wolf Man” movie character, and it even had fake hair that made it look authentic. It was also shaped in such a way that I could wear my eyeglasses underneath it. Man, I loved that mask … didn’t even need Halloween as an excuse to put it on. Sometimes I’d be sitting at the dinner table in mid-July wearing it … just thinking about how cool it would be if I were a lycanthrope. Then I’d lift it up so I could take a bite out of a yeast roll, and then put it back in position and think more about lycanthropy. And really, the mask was the only expense to the ensemble; the rest of the costume was just regular clothes.

I can’t tell you how many times I’d knock on a door and the person who opened it would say, “Oh my, you’re scary!”

And I’d want to answer, “No shit. I’m a werewolf … you should be scared,” but I wouldn’t because nippers shouldn’t cuss.

Batman is my favorite masked vigilante – a man who presents himself as a nocturnal flying mammal in order to strike fear into the hearts of malefactors, ne’er-do-wells and tosspots. Personally, I’ve always liked bats – I find them quite pleasant. But then again I’m a delightful person, so Batman would have no reason to strike fear into me. Now feral hogs are another story … I find them quite off-putting. So if I may digress for a moment, let me say that if someone dressed as a feral hog – we’ll call him Feral Hog Man for the purposes of this column – then yes, I would be scared of them. (Note to self: as soon as I’m done here call DC and Marvel and pitch a character that has shapeshifted into a feral hog due to a curse or bite administered by late country singer/sausage maven Jimmy Dean).

Anyway, Batman costumes were more difficult for bespectacled kids like me, at least when it came to the cowl. I couldn’t wear them over or under the hard, plastic, traditional Halloween masks, and wearing them under cloth Batman masks made me resemble a large bug.

One year my mom convinced me to just place my glasses over the homemade cowl she had fashioned from an old dress.

“Oh, Scotty,” she said, “No one will even notice.”

First house I went to an old man answered the door and said, “You supposed to be Batman? I didn’t know Batman wore glasses.”

What an ass. I mean, Batman watched his parents killed right in front of him in an alley behind a theater, and all that’s going through this codger’s mind is, “Hey Myrtle – get a load of the Caped Crusader wearing horn rims!” Maybe – just maybe – the Dark Knight’s retinas were damaged during a fight with Mr. Freeze, forcing him to follow optometrist’s orders. I really wanted to tell that geezer off, but he gave me two Snickers bars so I let it go.

Finally, when I became obsessed with tackle football, I decided to Trick-or-Treat while rocking the uniform of my favorite player, Joe Namath. In retrospect, this was probably my most authentic recreation.

Christmas of 1970 I got a New York Jets/Joe Namath Rawlings uniform, complete with helmet, jersey, pants and shoulder pads. It was absolutely glorious. The packaging said the helmet was “not suitable for competition,” but when it came to competing for the best Halloween costume, it suited me just fine.

If Joe Namath and I had been standing side-by-side, it would’ve been hard to tell us apart – except for the age, height and muscle differences. And the great thing is, no one would even see that I was wearing glasses because I’d have my helmet on.

So while my friends were dressed like cowboys, lumberjacks and dental hygienists, I was repping No. 12 and snagging copious amounts of candy.

After being told by several snack-givers I looked just like Namath, I finally reached a house occupied by a teenager who I believe was babysitting. She looked me up and down and said, “Hey little boy, I don’t think Joe Namath wears glasses.”

And I thought, “How do you know? Maybe Joe Willie’s been hit so many times by Ben Davidson he suffers from blurred vision. Or maybe since by the end of his injury-plagued 1970 season the coaching staff was concerned that his career interception total was 116 against just 102 touchdown passes, and Weeb Ewbank decided to buy him a pair to better spot Don Maynard and George Sauer. Or maybe he just likes how cerebral they make him look. You’re not omniscient.”

This Tiger Beat-reading, Bobby Sherman-lusting teen had absolutely no clue about Joe Namath’s optical history, and I was this close to giving her a piece of my mind when she stuck a big bowl full of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups in my face and told me to grab a handful. At that point I realized she was both kind and beautiful, and I was in love.

Ah, what great memories those were. Even years later when late October rolls around, I’ll occasionally think about dressing up as a werewolf, Batman or Joe Namath. Sometimes I daydream about combining the three, where Joe Namath is secretly Batman but also shapeshifts into a wolf due to a curse or bite. Of course I’d still have to deal with the glasses situation, and being ridiculed by the person handing out candy. Then again, if a 60-year-old man dressed as Joe WereBat came to the door holding a pumpkin bucket, eyewear would probably be the least of their concerns.