Potluck Dinner

"Leg over leg, the dog went to Dover." -- H.W. Thompson

The local Happy Helpful Hearts organization was holding its annual potluck fundraising dinner early in December and Harold Tobin decided to attend. Almost everyone who came brought a food dish for sharing, which acted as a ticket for admission, though some came empty-handed and paid a set price to enter. This dinner was held annually near the end of the year, had been for many years, and kicked off a series of holiday events designed to raise money for charity. It was Harold's first year making an appearance.

There was no competitive element regarding the dishes brought, it wasn't a food contest, no judges would be awarding prizes or anything, nor was it meant to be. But as with many such events where homemade items were on display or consumed, a certain amount of critical evaluating and one-upmanship was taking place among the attendees, no matter how stifled they seemed. People took quite a bit of care placing their items on the large serving tables where they thought they would be best displayed, for example, and name cards indicating who had brought what were prominently displayed.

There was quite a decent turnout, despite the dusting of snow that had occurred earlier, about 75 people, so there were at least five dozen dishes to partake of, quite an array. Harold sampled several items, from the usual things you expect, like tuna fish casserole and green bean salad to some fairly exotic desserts. Having attended his fair share of other potluck dinners in his lifetime, he'd always been amazed how after such an affair some people went home with their dishes empty while others left with theirs barely touched. In a certain regard, it made him think of an online story site he sometimes contributed to, Literotica, and its writers and their stories.

While he thought about this and somewhat sadly imagined the conclusion to this potluck dinner would be no different, Harold got to talking with a charming woman named Louise. Their conversation started when she noticed some of the food he had taken and placed on his plate.

"I see you have some of Mabel Hammersmith's sweet potato souffle," she said pleasantly. "It would not surprise me if you were one of the few, along with myself and maybe Troy Hingham, who treated ourselves to it."

"Really," Harold replied, and took a small amount of it on his fork and put it in his mouth. "That actually tastes very good," he said. "Delicious, in fact."

"Do you know Mabel?" she asked, not surprised by his comment.

"No," he answered. "I've never met her. But why would no one else but us three want to sample her souffle? Is she not well liked in the community?"

"As liked as anyone else, probably," she responded. "No, I'm not sure anyone spitefully avoids it. If they're not fond of sweet potatoes, of course they will. But it just seems to work out that way. Other dishes seem more attractive to folks, things that are sweeter perhaps or grab the eye right away. Once they catch on they remain favorites. Mina Carlisle's apple crisps everyone loves, I'm sure they're all gone. Same with Cora Ebberly's fudge supreme."

"I see," Harold stated.

Gazing at him for a few seconds and then looking away, Louise added, "I wonder why Mabel keeps bringing it -- I know it bothers her it's overlooked all the time. She's very fond of it." Louise then related some background information about Mabel and her souffle to Harold. To his surprise, as she narrated her story, it made him think of Literotica more and more.

According to Louise, this would mark the sixth year in a row that Mabel had labored over the stove for hours making her delicious sweet potato souffle from a recipe passed down from her great-grandmother, it having won a first-place ribbon at the Ohio State Fair judged over by Warren G. Harding himself on a day he inadvertently got shut out of a backroom poker game, long before his White House years and that funny business with Nan Britton. Yet for some reason, right from that very first potluck six years ago, Mabel's souffle went barely noticed. Every year Mabel would bring her souffle to the dinner, convinced it was the best dish there by far, only to see it ignored again. Based on what Harold tasted himself when sampling it, the odd combination of spices, it's delicate texture, its unique tantalizingly rich flavor, all so different from the usual sweet potato souffles one encounters, he could picture clearly how upset she must have felt seeing it go unappreciated, even untouched. "If only those nincompoops could let their hair down a little," he could envision her saying, "open up their minds and taste buds to something wondrous and novel, they would be flabbergasted that such a delicious concoction should even exist."

And in Harold's imagination as the scene continued to unfold, a different storyline presented an opposing turn of events.

"Who made this wonderful souffle?" someone would ask in astonishment, everyone stuffing their mouths with her souffle.

"Mabel Hammersmith? Who and where is Mabel?" And Mabel would move forward a half step or so and meekly raise her hand an inch or two. Everyone would gather around her, compliment her profusely over her creation, all insisting on getting the recipe, and inviting her to the next meeting of the Women's Club on Tuesday afternoon. Mabel would have tears in her eyes. Maybe these people weren't such nincompoops after all, she would think; she would love to attend their Club meeting.

It was a very pleasant scene that played out in Harold's imagination, but, alas, once again everyone (except Harold, Louise, and perhaps Troy) passed her souffle by, and Mabel was more convinced than ever that these people were beyond hope or caring about. He could see she was upset and decided to speak to her, not only wishing her a Merry Christmas, but more to the point telling her he had tried some of her souffle and found it excellent.

She thanked him and then said, seething, "I'll be good and goddammed if I waste my time and energy making that souffle ever again! Fucking ingrates! Excuse my language." And then, deep in his imagination again, Harold could hear Mabel's voice declaring, "I'd rather get VD than attend that stupid fucking Club meeting!"

But then a strange thing happened. Well, maybe not so strange. Several months later the local weekly newspaper in its Upcoming Events column announced the next potluck dinner. Mabel noticed it, of course, but quickly scoffed and turned the page before the anger could return. However, a day or two later, she spied the paper again in the recycling bin and was reminded of the upcoming potluck dinner. She took it and sat in her easy chair and read about the planned dinner. She read it a second time and then sighed. She suddenly conjured up an image of her great-grandmother, the frail old woman she remembered dressed in black and smelling always of talcum powder, and her sweet potato souffle that everybody in her family just loved to distraction, and before she knew it she was making a list of the ingredients she'd need to make it herself.

Shortly after that Harold ran into Mabel at the post office and they got to talking. She told him about deciding to make her sweet potato souffle again for the next potluck, which surprised him after what she had said to him at the last one. But he said nothing.

"This time I'm going to make sure I place it right smack in the middle of the table where everyone can't help but see it," she said to him. "And when BettyLou Grayson moves it so she can put her oh-so-average pumpkin pie in its place, I will just tell her my souffle was there first and she shouldn't go around moving other people's dishes. That'll fix

her

!" Harold was glad to see her so excited and full of hope, convinced that THIS time everyone would finally see what was so obvious to her.

That's when it fully dawned on him how so many writers on Literotica, himself included, were, at least at some point, just like Mabel Hammersmith.