Talk about bringing a knife to a gunfight.
Last Thursday my church choir had a picnic, generously hosted at the home of one of the altos. The house was the picture of elegance, sitting on a little dip into the James River, with rooms full of antique maps, furniture, marble flooring, and a bronzze bust of Thomas Jefferson in the foyer.
Not the neck-up bust of Jefferson. The full-torso bust of Jefferson.
Needless to say, I was on my best behaviour.
I decided not to make anything, even though I could have assembled a Greek salad, instead I brought several bags of gourmet chips and some swanky salsa and buffalo sauce/rance dressing dip that I purchased at one of the gourmet food stores here in Wmsbrg. But, after seeing the table positively groaning with fried chicken, salads, casseroles, couscous, taco salad, sandwiches, fresh veg and fruit and plates upon plates of brownies, I wasn't surprised when no one dipped into my buffalo dip. I should have remembered there's nothing like a Methodist when it comes to potluck.
Next time, I'm bringing my "A" game.
The party was nice though--I ate too much, of course, and sipped awkwardly on sweet tea while my tablemates chatted about grandchildren and people I didn't know--but I had a good time.
Meanwhile, it's a hundred degrees here. I'm not even exaggerating. I know I said once I'd rather have it be hot than be cold, but even I, in my salamander-like state of mind, am finding it difficult to be outside. I think I'm going to go find a muffin and some more sweet tea...if there's any ice left in thic town.