A potluck. Awesome.
Can anyone explain the suburbs’ love affair with potluck parties?
If you live in the ‘burbs you know what I’m talking about. A party invitation arrives. You think, Hooray!
Then you see those dreaded words:
“Bring a bottle and a side to share!”
Newsflash: that’s not a party. That’s an indoor picnic.
Out here in the land of no street corners, the mighty Triscuit is your admission ticket to a social life. When people die in the suburbs I’m convinced they leave behind estates consisting largely of Pyrex dishes and boxes of Bisquick. We suburbanites are a potluck loving people.
Not me. When I host a party, I host a party. That means you come over and I feed you. Why is that so hard?
It’s not a financial thing. Lugging a cooler or casserole dish to every gathering just gets tedious. I also think there’s something gracious about welcoming people into your home and serving a meal you’ve prepared (or in my case, a meal you’ve had catered).
I’m in the minority, though. So I go to parties where crockpot meatballs get served in terrace-level entertainment suites tricked out with second kitchens and walk-in wine cellars. I’ve gunned down warm, communal Two Buck Chuck in the homes of people who travel exclusively on Net Jets. It’s bizarre.
My theory? People have so embraced the Room Mom mentality that every social function becomes a class project. I also wonder if people host potlucks as a way of saying, “I will tolerate your presence but if you want to eat you’re on your own.” We’re a passive-aggressive bunch out here you know.
But mainly I’m flummoxed. What is it with the suburbs and potlucks?
Culdesacked 
We’re so afraid/obsessed with not having what someone eats. People are eating paleo, vegan, gluten free, low carb, kosher, this-or-that dieting. The LAST thing anyone wants is for someone to be SO offended that there is NOTHING they can eat. If you bring your own food, it’s probably something that fits into your latest diet, if not, you’re the dumbass, and probably shouldn’t admit you brought something you yourself would not eat. Nobody can keep track of all these diet restrictions.
I agree with you on the hosting business. In my mind, I pick the date, send the invites, organize the food, and study the newspapers for fun things to talk about. You RSVP, arrive on time-ish, and participate in the conversation. Thus are parties born.
Lately, though, I *cannot* stop people from bringing things. I don’t mean flowers or a bottle of wine, I mean walking through my front door with a crockpot, a cake and the ingredients for boiled icing, or a massive platter and twenty Tupperware containers filled with teeny bits of things off the supermarket olive bar. It drives me crazy.
Good grief if they want to go to that much trouble you should see if they’d like to do some laundry or vacuum while they’re at it!