BRING A PLATE
Among dining trends, potlucks have had curious staying power. And yet, a dish guaranteed to please a crowd can be elusive. Britt Mann has some expert advice to ensure your dish is devoured every time.
The perils of potluck preparation
Allow me to outline for you the seven stages of potluck panic - and their potential perils.
Delight
Upon receiving an invitation, you feel pangs of anticipation. Socialising over fare lovingly crafted by human hands, in the comfort of a loved (or at least, liked) one’s home? Squee! The prospect of reacquainting yourself with the culturally dormant casserole? What a night!
Trepidation
Your positivity gives way to memories of agonising over what to make, then traipsing around multiple supermarkets. You spent as much money as you would on dinner at a fancy-ish restaurant to concoct something that spilt in your car on the way there. Your $75 Jamie Oliver mac ‘n’ cheese went uneaten. The host thought it was an apple crumble and left it in the fridge with the desserts.
Determination
Perhaps this time could be, would be different, you think. The usual trawling of websites and cookbooks starts; learnings from Barry Schwartz’s Paradox of Choice threatening to overwhelm.
After canvassing opinions from apathetic friends, who accuse you of ‘‘over-thinking’’ it, you settle on a dish, jot down your shopping list, and tootle to the requisite two to three supermarkets to buy a $10 box of Israeli couscous or a similar ‘‘exotic’’ grain.
Exhaustion
After a few hours at the shops followed by another few in the kitchen, you’ve created an ironically disproportionate number of dishes in pursuit of ‘‘bringing a plate’’. The familiar feeling of a task being more trouble than it’s worth begins brewing in your head.
Resentment
You have spent the better part of a Saturday afternoon preparing for an event you’re now unsure you even want to attend.
Resignation
You attend the event anyway.
Shame
Your worst fears are realised. You spend the evening shooting furtive glances at a table laden with dishes, largely also comprising Israeli couscous or similar ‘‘exotic’’ grains.
Your contribution to the spread, its jaunty sprig of curly parsley wilting on top, goes untouched by guests other than you.
You accidentally get the crowd favourite – chilli con carne – on your person, but you stay until someone whips out a guitar and attempts a rousing rendition of Bob Marley’s Redemption Song. You cover your exotic grains with a crumpled piece of clingfilm that’s no longer particularly clingy, and go home.
The potential perils of the potluck are, of course, part of the attraction.
‘‘By definition, true potluck means taking your chances, and if that means ending up having peanut butter on toast, so be it,’’ says Lucy Corry, food writer and contributor to Stuff.
‘‘It’s the company you eat with that counts, right?’’ she says.
Sally Butters, food editor for NZ House & Garden, is similarly pragmatic, offering a mantra for the over-thinkers among us.
‘‘They’re meant to be relaxed affairs...
‘‘No one ever starves, and who cares if you have three potato salads or too many desserts?’’ she says. ‘‘It’s only one meal in your lifetime.’’
I sought these foodies’ advice on fail-safe potluck recipes, spurred by the unsavoury experiences I have suffered in my life.
I figured the ideal dish should meet the following criteria: an ingredient list that wasn’t too long, was easy to source, and was easy on the wallet; a recipe that didn’t take too much time or skill to execute; a dish that was easy to transport, and didn’t require reheating or assembly at the venue, or spill or melt or spontaneously combust en route.
When it came to the eating, it’d need to be a dish with recognisable yet appetising elements, which wasn’t messy (spaghetti), smelly (fish, egg), or embarrassing (anything shaped like a sausage) to consume.
A tall order perhaps, but Corry and Butters were up to the challenge.
Butters’ suggestion of tomato and herb couscous certainly fulfils these requirements. Most of the ingredients are pantry staples, the rest are readily found in gardens or supermarkets at negligible cost. And there’s hardly any cooking required. As Butters says: ‘‘Simply boil the jug.’’
Corry cited her thoroughly road-tested roasted eggplant with whipped feta and walnuts. The weekend after the recipe was first published, Corry says, five colleagues reported they had made it for barbecues they’d attended.
Corry agrees that the potluck concept can be confusing. She suggests guests ask the host whether the event will be an intimate dinner, drinks and nibbles, or an extravagant feast; if there will be children who might appreciate simpler fare, and whether those who RSVP’d ‘‘yes’’ have any dietary restrictions.
‘‘Don’t take lots of meat to a vegan gathering, don’t take your much-acclaimed peanut butter cheesecake to a party full of people with nut and dairy allergies unless you’re handy with an EpiPen, [and] don’t turn up with lots of alcohol if the other guests are teetotallers.’’
If hosting duties have fallen to you, Corry advises embracing the potluck concept in all its flawed glory, ‘‘and take your chances of five people turning up with tubs of supermarket hummus and packets of crisps’’. Or adopt a dictatorial approach: ask guests to bring a particular type of dish or item.
Immensely comforting for the kitchen-phobe, Corry says if you can’t cook well, then shop well.
‘‘Engage your inner Instagrammer and create a fabulous platter,’’ she says. If all else fails, buy the hosts something they can enjoy at a later date.
‘‘Wine is always good.’’