Covered Dish Confidential

 

There are two things you can be reasonably certain you will have in a Southern church - an altar call and a covered dish meal. 

And when it comes to the covered dish, there are certain foods that will most certainly be served. 

Like macaroni and cheese. The odds of seeing that on the buffet table are about the same as seeing beer in a fraternity house.

There will probably be two or three versions of it. And while all of it is technically called the same thing, there can be a world of difference between them. One was obviously thrown together an hour before worship using a box of store-bought Kraft, while another one was  meticulously prepared by somebody who believes macaroni and cheese is a gourmet delicacy. They were probably lovingly grating a block of cheddar at 6 o’clock Sunday morning. 

In addition, the covered dish will undoubtedly feature fried chicken, probably purchased from a Publix  supermarket. Those folks have figured out how to perfectly fry the bird, making a lot of little old ladies lives much easier.

And let’s not forget potato salad - a traditional covered dish staple. There is always potato salad. Some will be swimming in so much mayonnaise that I can hardly see potatoes underneath it. Others are more mustard-based. I suppose there are strong opinions about each version, although I have never heard of a church splitting over it. 

A covered dish is an adventure. You may see some things on the buffet you can’t quite figure out, but look pretty tasty. It may be a casserole you’ve never heard of, prepared by Aunt Minnie exactly the way her mother and her mother’s mother used to make it.

It could be delicious. It could also be perfectly awful. But you’re going to eat it anyway.

You’ll take a bite or two, smile and say, “That’s good.”

Because you don’t want to hurt Aunt Minnie’s feelings.

Our church has a little lady named  Doris.

Doris is 100 years old, but don’t let her age fool you. She still wields a mean wooden spoon around the kitchen.

Doris’ food has enough butter and  bacon grease to lube the chassis of a ‘67 Plymouth. She makes a cardiologist nervous just walking past the fellowship hall.

But, Lord, can she cook.

Doris will always walk up to me at a covered dish and tell me what I need to get first.

“You better get some of my casseroles before they’re gone.”

She doesn’t say this as a suggestion.

She says it like she’s giving me inside information on the stock market.

And she usually has a couple of dishes out there, all of which will disappear before I come back for seconds.

Apparently, other people in the church love butter and bacon grease as much as I do.

And you can bet your bottom dollar that quite a few little old ladies are watching the buffet with the intensity of a lion eyeing a herd of antelope.

Every dish gets scrutinized like Nick Saban watching game film. And if you listen carefully, you might hear a few of them discussing the offerings like Food Network judges.

“Who brought that three-bean salad? I’ll bet it was Irene. If she’s ever cooked anything for one of these covered dishes, I’d be surprised. That’s straight out of a can.”

“Well, at least she had to use a can opener. Look over there at Georgiana. All she ever does is stop by the Piggly Wiggly and buy a package of rolls and a gallon of tea. Bless her heart.”

“No, bless her family’s heart. I’m sure they live off frozen pizza and Kraft macaroni and cheese.”

But the desserts are where the real competition begins.

Nobody is just bringing a pie. They’re bringing a reputation. The buzz might even begin at church the week before.

“Mary Susan just told me she’s bringing her banana pudding next Sunday. ‘Course she won’t give anybody her recipe because it’s a family secret. I think she puts amaretto in there. Well, I can forget about anybody eating my pecan pie.”

The following week, it arrives in a glass dish. 

Mary Susan didn’t make it that morning, because this is as much art as it is food. From the flawlessly sliced bananas in perfect proportion to the vanilla wafers, to the coiffed meringue that looks like tiny, snow-covered mountains, she’s been perfecting that recipe since before most of us knew what a covered dish was.

Then there’s the chocolate cake that looks like it came from a bakery but is introduced as “just something I threw together.” Nobody believes that for a second. It looks like somebody knew they’d be competing with the banana pudding.

Covered dishes at church have been around just about as long as churches.

My guess is that about 2,000 years ago, some member of the early church came up with the idea.

I can see the Apostles showing up carrying stone bowls of olives, pickles, and maybe even goat meat. My guess is Peter brought fish. 

And there was undoubtedly one guy standing there saying, “I don’t know what this is, but it sure looks good.”

And all these centuries later, we’re still doing it.

The dishes have changed. The olives may have been replaced with Jell-O salad. The cookware has improved. The fried chicken will likely come from Publix instead of somebody’s kitchen.

But the basic idea remains the same.

Bring enough food to feed everybody - and then some.

Tell the person who made the mystery casserole that it’s delicious.

And go back for another helping of macaroni and cheese.

By the time I get through the line, I’ve almost certainly created what I call a carbapalooza.

Pasta salad. Macaroni and cheese. Rice and gravy. Potato salad.

I consume enough carbohydrates to put me into a food coma until the following Wednesday.

And that’s the beauty of a church covered dish.

Nobody comes expecting a salad. 

They come expecting to eat.