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From Barak Blackburn, Taxonomy Editor: In today's world of corporate ladder climbing and backstabbing how was I, Taxonomy Editor, bestowed with honor and granted the respect of the entire office (in addition my name is finally being spelled and pronounced correctly)? A group of my friends in college decided to start a tradition. Every Wednesday night they would get together and make a recipe from one of Molly Katzen's famous Moosewood cookbooks. They called it Moosewood Night. Not being a big fan of onions (and tomatoes and zucchini and... ), I generally avoided Moosewood Night. I moved into an apartment with several other non-Moosewood friends and we decided to counter Moosewood Night with a dinner night of our own. The rules were simple: the only participants would be the four of us; dinner would rotate from one housemate to the next; the person who was "it" would be responsible for the full meal (entree, side dish and dessert); meat was required in the main-dish (but no organs or sweetmeats); and certain dietary restrictions (prejudices, hatreds, dislikes) were to be observed. This tradition continued until we all graduated. It was a wonderful way for all of us to get together and enjoy a delicious home-cooked meal. After I moved to the Pioneer Valley after college and made some friends (okay, most of them were friends from college who "just happened" to have migrated to the Valley after we did), my housemate and I continued this tradition. Every Sunday we would invite people over for a home-cooked meal and some quality "family-time" — an evening viewing of Dr. Quinn, err... I mean The Simpsons and The X-Files. These Sunday dinners have become a very nice tradition and a great way to spend time with friends other than during Happy Hour at the Ground Round. All of this happy, hugging, and eating stuff was just an evolution of the potluck tradition started by my friend Andy. It wasn't a regular tradition, but a tradition nonetheless. (Along with the tradition of who was going to bring a dish they called chili, but was instead a heated mixture of beans and meat and tomato sauce along with many other un-chili like vegetables such as carrots and celery. Sue me, I'm a chili snob.) Blah, Blah, Blah. Fast Forward. I get a job a Tripod; I "share" a desk with two other people. The winter holidays are approaching. I've moved from the Valley. I need new friends. I'd like a hug. What's a fellow to do? Have a potluck. I send out an office-wide e-mail gauging interest in said potluck. Interest is strong. I set a date. I print up signs. I bring chili. The Toymaker brings pigs-in-a-blanket. Ethan brings sesame noodles. No one brings a Jell-O® product. There are many delicious dishes. People graze all day. (Note: There was some confusion about the nature of a potluck — some folks thought that hugging was mandatory, and therefore did not participate.) Everyone is stuffed. I wipe down the two tables used for holding food. (Pay attention now folks, this is the part in the story where the big twist comes in; and no, it's nothing like the "Crying Game.") After the potluck, when folks have eaten their fill, I get many compliments. I insist all I did was send out an e-mail and bring in a pot of chili. The flattery continues. The e-mails start filling up my mailbox. There is talk of rotating weekly potlucks. There is talk of me replacing Chow Yun Fat as the Coolest Man Alive. I am a modern-day Tom Sawyer. A hipper Martha Stewart©. I stop shrugging off the good words, and go with the proverbial flow. Boldly, on Monday morning, I set up another potluck. More people respond to this e-mail. Several people apologize for not participating in the first potluck. People promise to bring in multiple dishes to make up for "the last one." I save these e-mails. They will be important as I continue in my role as puppetmaster here at Tripod. So if you're around on the December 15th, bring a dish and stop by. Or if you'd like help coordinating your own party, drop me a line. (potluck@tripod.com)
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