Who doesn’t love a good potluck? Well, potlucks can go downhill quickly when there are miscommunications, poor potluck contributions, or the food is just straight-up nasty. These people share the ridiculous foods they’ve had at a terrible potluck. Yikes! I hope you weren’t hungry! Content has been edited for clarity.
For Love And Lechon
“My family came to the United States in the early seventies. Although my entire family was affected by an eight thousand-mile voyage, being homesick seemed to have distressed my seventeen-year-old brother and me, fourteen years old, the most.
My parents didn’t waste any time addressing the issue. They began taking me, my brother, and my two younger sisters, to Sunday spiritual services at local community centers. They searched for a service with a youth group and a Sunday school my siblings and I enjoyed. I guessed they hoped some new friends in our age group would lift our spirits. We just had to decide which service we liked most.
In one service, as we were about to leave, the pastor standing at the door greeted us. He gave us a warm welcome and shook our hands.
The pastor informed us, ‘The other teens at the community center are having a potluck dinner next Sunday night. It would be an excellent opportunity to meet the rest of the youth group. You should attend!’
As expected, my parents volunteered me and my brother to be attendees.
I was nervous about going to the potluck. Communication wasn’t an issue, as my family was bilingual. Rather, going to the potluck meant socializing and eating with a group of American teens whom I knew nothing about.
What did they like and dislike? It was June, so school was out for the summer. I didn’t know any American kids other than those I’ve observed from my living room window, whooping and careening around the neighborhood in their three-speed Schwinns.
Besides, I had never even heard of the word ‘potluck,’ much less been to one.
The concept seemed simple enough. All participants were to bring a dish to be shared with the group. The issue was, my family had been eating Filipino foods all of our lives. We were not familiar with the foods an average American teen ate.
In trying to decide what dish to bring, I suggested a food known to be a perennial favorite for birthdays, fiestas, and national holidays. What could go wrong?
I asked my mom if she would make us some Lechon for the potluck.
She replied, ‘Lechon is an excellent selection.’
Lechon was slow-roasted pork. Traditionally, an entire pig was rotated over a fire pit for several hours and seasoned with unrefined sea salt, cloves of garlic, and balls of peppercorn.
When cooked properly, the crunchy layer of roasted skin made a snapping sound when sliced. After slicing, tender and moist meat was revealed underneath the fat melt. A sweet and spicy sauce made from a blend of liver spread, brown sugar, vinegar, peppercorns, and hot chili peppers gave the morsels an additional kaleidoscope of flavors in every mouthful.
The morning of the potluck dinner arrived. After spiritual service and dropping us off at home, my parents drove to a grocery store and bought a slab of pork belly, along with all the ingredients to make the sauce.
Then, by using the oven, my mom proceeded to transform the pork belly into Lechon.
Her efforts produced a masterpiece. After several hours of slow-roasting, my mom cut up the well-seasoned slab into bite-sized pieces. These, she laid out over a serving dish and covered with aluminum foil. She also gave us a gravy boat which we were to fill with the homemade sauce which for now, was sealed in a jar. Finally, she gave us a Tupperware of white rice.
My brother and I put the dish on the folding table with the other dishes, in one of the rooms of the little house next to the community center.
Imagine offering a turkey dinner with all the fixings to someone from a land far away, even though it wasn’t a holiday. That was the kind of excitement I felt. I sat back down and waited to hear everyone’s excitement about my mother’s meal.
The dish didn’t go over very well. My brother and I were still seated when the line for the potluck table began forming. It was then we began overhearing a word, bobbing right below the surface of their teenage banter.
‘Gross!’ someone exclaimed.
The teenagers mumbled as they gave our contribution a curious glance before opting for more traditional American food. We were seated close enough to hear ‘gross’ a few times. Although the slang word was an uncommon one for us, we found no need for them to elucidate. We caught on to its meaning from the tone alone.
I kept an eye on our Lechon as I sat facing the table behind my brother. I watched one girl, around my age, hover around my mom’s masterpiece.
To those around her, she cast glances and repeatedly remarked, ‘How embarrassing!’
As an adult, remarks such as ‘gross’ and ‘embarrassing’ would’ve elicited a chuckle and a shrug from me. As a fourteen-year-old wanting sorely to fit in, the remarks stung.
I believed the girl was right. Bringing the gross meal to the potluck was indeed embarrassing. It made me feel even more withdrawn. Secretly, I wanted to leave. Secretly, it made me sadder for a familiar home, thousands of miles away.
But, my brother got up and got in line, and I decided to follow. On my plate, I plopped a dollop of sloppy joe. My brother gave me a confused look.
I justified my selection by telling him, ‘I think it would be nice to try something new.’
My brother had always been the wiser of us two. He filled his plate with the meal my mother cooked. It wasn’t surprising. We had been waiting all day to eat it.
After I returned to my seat, I began to do some thinking. I had time to since I didn’t talk to anyone. I realized what was savory for one culture can be seen as gross by another. Some dishes just took more of getting used to. It was nothing personal. Like the sloppy joe which contorted my face after I took a bite. I went back for seconds.
But this time, I skipped the sloppy joe and filled my plate with my mom’s Lechon, sauce, and rice. I sat back down and I ate a whole lot of my mother’s food, with unbridled gusto. The meal was so scrumptious, and I enjoyed it shamelessly. I decided to not care what the other kids thought of my mom’s cooking. I enjoyed it and relaxed.
The members of the youth group began asking curious questions, and my brother happily responded. When I looked up from my food for a brief second, I realized some of those questions were directed at me. These strangers were asking me questions. I answered. Then we began asking them questions, too.
The dialogue flowing from both sides quickly evolved into quips and laughter, ideas and dreams, jokes and anecdotes, a teenhood of experiences from opposite sides of the world, all compared. We began enjoying each other’s conversation and company as we faced each other, seated in a circle of chairs, eating and communicating.
What happened next surprised me.
The delight my brother and I displayed for our mother’s food encouraged most of the teens to try it. They loved it once they sliced off the fat and poured the sauce over the meat. Even the ‘how embarrassing,’ girl took a nibble. Watching her try the Lechon made me smile. I think she liked it because she went back for more afterward. She noticed me upon her return and smiled back at me. Way before the evening’s end, I realized, though our food may differ, we and they were more alike than not.
In my mind’s eye, I witnessed dawn illuminate the landscape and give detail to once-dark forms. I looked around and realized, I’m not lost. Home as I viewed it changed. However, the home was now a new land, just waiting to be explored.
‘It is going to be a major task to accomplish,’ I told myself.
But adapting to the new world didn’t need to be difficult. With the help of new friends, it could have been made easy.
Before dinner’s end, it was.”
The Fudge Fumble
“Individually, the food everyone brought to the potluck wasn’t ridiculous. But collectively, it certainly was.
When I was a kid, we celebrated the holidays as an extended family. The holiday party was normally at my immediate family’s house, as we were the most centrally located. The parties were relaxed gatherings with not much forethought or planning.
On this particular year, my mother decided, instead of her usual ham or turkey, her contribution to the potluck was to provide a clean house. Not wanting to look too stingy, she made a plate of fudge.
My grandparents were the first to arrive at the party. Normally, they brought a potato hot dish to all of our shindigs. This time, Grandma decided to do something different, so she brought a plate of fudge.
Next, my aunt arrived with her family. She was known for her light, fluffy, homemade rolls. This time, she had a new fudge recipe she wanted to try.
Then, my uncle and his family arrived at the party. Normally, they brought a salad, but could you guess what they brought this time? Fudge.
By the time all of the families arrived, there were eleven households at the party. The potluck consisted of eleven plates of fudge. Oh, and a bunch of peanut butter sandwiches my mom and grandmother threw together at the last minute. Thank goodness we had something different to eat.
As a ten-year-old kid, I thought this was the best potluck ever! I mean, who didn’t love chocolate? The adults, on the other hand, decided a little forethought and planning might be a good idea in the future.
It was a good memory, and a family potluck for the history books.”
Main Course Miscommunication
“When a neighbor invited my family and me to celebrate the holiday with them, along with some other families we knew, we were very excited to attend.
The problem was, my family was returning home from a cruise the same morning. Our ship docked in New York City, and we hightailed it back to Philadelphia. Time was short, so I whipped up a caesar salad big enough to feed each family at the party. I also brought a few bottles of drinks for the adults to share.
When we arrived, there were several other people already at the neighbor’s house. It was a potluck event. Our children went off to play with the others, and my wife and I were ushered over to the kitchen to get some drinks. Someone had made mini-dogs and there were cheese and crackers, plus veggies and dip. A table was set beautifully with a landscape of twigs, bird nests, pine cones, and many tea candles.
The host pulled out some pizza and chicken fingers for the children to eat. My salad was ceremoniously placed in the center of the table, along with some other sides like green beans and mashed potatoes. The host served us some soup and nothing else. There wasn’t ham or turkey, or much else to eat for the main course.
I leaned over to my husband and questioned, ‘Where is dinner?’
Nobody agreed to bring the main course. We were all starving! There were about twelve adults all looking at each other wondering where the food was at.
Suddenly, some of the twigs on the table too close to a candle caught on fire.
Everyone scrambled to put out the fire. Then, after finally settling down again, the guy sitting next to me decided to steal some of the chicken fingers meant for the children.
‘You want one?’ he said pointing to his plate.
I chuckled and replied, ‘No thanks.’
Things were getting very desperate and very awkward.
As my husband and I weren’t big drinkers, we were exhausted to boot. We were the first to say our goodbyes to the neighbors and head home.
After we got into the car, I turned to my husband and said, ‘Is this what most people do on the holiday? Why didn’t they have food for us?’
He replied, ‘Honey, some people might be different. All we do at our family’s holiday parties is shove food into people’s faces. It looks like they were more interested in the extensive drink selection. Maybe there was a miscommunication or something?’
I shrugged and said, ‘But that was some fire, huh? I told you those tea candles were going to go up in flames sitting in a kindling right on the table!’
‘I’m starving,’ my husband responded.
Our kids started to complain, ‘Mom! Please, can we get something to eat? We’re hungry!’
So, we ended up doing what we usually did on the holiday. We went out for some Chinese food! It was delicious as it was the years prior.
It was a strange holiday, but I was always grateful to get to spend the time with my family.”
“They Were Pretty Embarrassed”
“This potluck happened at my workplace.
The coworker who organized the event sent out notices about the event, and encouraged everyone to ‘bring a different recipe.’
I went to the coworker and asked, ‘Is this an eating event, or are people going to be trading their recipes?’
She replied, ‘It’s a potluck dinner, everyone is going to be bringing a different recipe.’
I went back and forth with her about the statement more than once. If someone invited me somewhere and asked me to ‘bring a recipe,’ I would have assumed they wanted a recipe. Meaning, ‘Here’s how you make a delicious cheese dip,’ completed with a list of ingredients and how to put them together.
Finally, I explained to her, ‘If you want people to bring food to the dinner, you need to reword the invitation.’
Rather than rewording the invitation, as they had already been sent out, the coworker said she would just call everyone and explain.
Either not everyone got a call, or perhaps they still just didn’t understand what she wanted.
While many people did bring food, almost as many came with typed-up recipes. I felt so bad for them because they were pretty embarrassed.”
“The Look On His Face Was Priceless”
“At my job, we used to have a holiday party each year. There was a signup sheet for what food each employee would be bringing.
One of the engineers I worked with was notorious for being a terrible cook. The previous year, he made mashed potatoes in his food processor, and they were the consistency of glue.
The following year, a couple of women in the office signed him up to make ‘caviar on toast’ as a prank. The women ragged on the engineer for weeks about where he was sourcing the caviar from, and what kind of toast he was going to use.
The engineer decided to roll with the joke and showed up with Wonderbread toast and a jar of bait. The bait was chemically treated salmon eggs. He hand scrawled a label reading, ‘Caviar,’ on the jar of bait, and placed it on the potluck table. It looked disgusting!
Everyone got a good laugh out of the joke, but our receptionist got the last dig. She played dumb and told him how delicious the caviar he brought was. The look on his face was priceless as he tried to think of how to explain it all.”
“I Was A Bit Shocked”
“I previously worked as a restaurant manager. I was busy putting together events for our customers, as the restaurant was in a fairly populated area. One time, I decided a potluck would be a fun event on a Sunday afternoon.
I put the word out to customers, and I organized live music, raffles, horseshoe tosses, and other activities for the party. I decided since it was summer, I would make some of my famous potato salad and deviled eggs.
The day came, and as many people arrived, they set their offerings on the tables provided. As I arrange the food, I started to realize every single person brought store-bought items from grocery store delis and bakeries. Not one person brought any homemade goodies.
I was from the midwest, so a potluck party always consisted of bringing your best tasty homemade dish for friends to enjoy. But here I was, in Las Vegas, where not many people cooked their food. Most people dined out every day due to their busy schedules.
I was a bit shocked, as I had never seen a ‘potluck’ of all pre-packed foods before. I probably should have specified what a potluck was more.
It didn’t matter in the end, because it turned out to be a good time for all who attended.”
Poor Potluck Contributions
“My partner and I were on a recreational vehicle caravan with five other couples who owned RVs.
We usually went to a restaurant for dinner together after a long day of traveling, but when we were stopped for more than one night, we would either have a potluck ‘happy hour’ or dinner back at camp.
One of the couples in the caravan was a couple who had dated in high school and married other people. Twenty-five years later, they met again, fell in love, and got married. The lady told the guy she didn’t want to get married again because she was tired of cooking and didn’t want to make another meal in her life.
To ‘seal the deal,’ he told her making dinner wouldn’t be a problem. They could go to a restaurant for every meal if they wanted to, or he could cook his meals. I’m pretty sure the guy didn’t think she was serious, but she meant it!
So, for every happy hour and potluck, her contribution to the event was two containers of hummus. Nothing to dip into it, just the hummus. Of course, nobody would eat it. At the end of each potluck, she would pop the lids back on and bring them to the next event.
Her husband, however, was first at every dish and plowed into all of the food. I think he was starving!
We traveled with each other for over six weeks, and I never once saw her cook.”
The Imperfect Paté Picnic
“I once brought the worst food to a potluck.
One time, I took a temporary part-time job to earn some extra money. The women I worked with invited me to a little potluck picnic they had every few months. To be safe, I asked about food allergies or dietary restrictions, plus what everyone liked to eat.
The women told me, ‘Oh, we eat anything!’
Everyone said they were adventurous eaters, and they loved to look at my social media posts about what foods I normally cook. I had to admit, I was a pretty good cook and had extensive knowledge of different types of foods.
I thought, ‘Perfect! These are my kind of people!’ and took my A-game to the picnic.
I made my grandmother’s pistachio paté, tiny homemade pickles, and homemade multigrain crackers. I also baked Portuguese milk tarts.
It wasn’t until I went to set my dishes down on the picnic table that I realized the terrible mistake I had made. My food looked so strange next to the tubs of grocery store potato salad, pots of Kraft macaroni and cheese, and Subway sandwiches.
Nobody even tried any of the food I brought. I think everyone was scared to try foods drastically different from what they normally ate. Their idea of ‘adventurous’ was sprinkling paprika on top of deviled eggs or adding onions to their green beans. I felt pretty bad.”
The Cookie Catastrophe
“I had two funny potluck incidents.
One time, I went to a potluck and a couple arrived with boxes of macaroni and cheese. They weren’t cooked, it was just boxed straight from the grocery store. Then, the female partner started requesting our hostess to bring her a pot, butter, and milk. The hostess ended up just making the mac and cheese. It was just easier, right? We were all giggling about it the entire night.
Another time, my work decided to do a holiday cookie exchange. We took a head count of how many people were participating, then each of us baked enough of one type of cookie to where each person could take home a dozen. Taking home a nice variety of cookies home to try or to gift to someone else was always fun. Plus, you could bring extra cookies to nibble on at the exchange.
So, fifteen of us signed up. One person who signed up was a young, single salesman. So, everyone could bake, right? Perfect! The only problem was, the directions for the cookie exchange could have been a bit more clear.
We all showed up in the lunchroom to share our fabulous fresh-baked cookies, and the young salesman walked in with a package of Oreos! He was truly shocked when we all started teasing him. Of course, he got his share of cookies and we accepted our Oreos. They were pretty delicious dunked in milk!”
“I Thought It Was Extremely Disrespectful”
“Well, I still feel annoyed about a potluck I hosted at my house about ten years ago.
I had gone to a similar event at my colleague’s house for two years in a row. The first year I went, I brought a cold meat platter, and it cost a decent amount of money. The next year, I made deviled eggs. Making deviled eggs took some time and effort, and they were the most popular item on the table. So the next year, I said I would host the potluck.
I laid out a nice table, ready for whatever offerings would come my way.
My colleague arrived at the potluck with an already-opened bag of chips, attached with a chip clip! I could not believe my eyes. Over the years, I contributed so much effort and money toward her potlucks. She had the nerve to arrive late with a chip-clipped bag of half-empty chips to mine!
I thought it was extremely disrespectful.
As revenge, I kept the chip clip. I kept it for years, and I snickered every time I used it. Take that, you inconsiderate, selfish, disrespectful guest.”
