The Covered Dish Supper

Growing up as the son of a Baptist minister brought with it many unique experiences, substandard housing, Sunday night services and living next to a cemetery just to name a few. Being Baptist, of course, meant that church wasn’t just for Sundays. As the child of the Pastor you were expected to be at church every time the doors were opened. For me that meant Sunday mornings, Sunday nights, plus that special service meant for the faithful few—Wednesday night prayer meeting. In addition, for the even faithful fewer, there was Tuesday night visitation. Thankfully, kids weren’t expected to endure that drudgery. So growing up the church building became like a second home for me. And what a strange place it was.

First, there was the smell of the place. Even though our church was meticulously cleaned by a team of janitors, there was a persistent odor that permeated every inch of the building. Perhaps odor is the wrong word. The smell wasn’t exactly a bad smell, rather it was unique inasmuch as I have never encountered its like in any other building I have entered in my lifetime. It was a baffling combination of mold, hair spray, and Aqua Velva…with hints of furniture polish and mothballs. To me that smell meant…church.

Then there were the odd names thrown about to describe sections of the building that I have never heard used in any other context. Words like narthex, vestibule, and the all important fellowship hall. Although I never got an understandable explanation of what a narthex was, I knew exactly what the fellowship hall was and what purpose it served. It was the place where from the day I was born until I graduated from high school, all the most prominent meals of my life were served. I am referring, of course, to the Baptist covered-dish supper. Some churches called them pot luck dinners, but rumor had it that it was mostly liberal churches that used that term. For us, it was covered dish suppers, and they were amazing. It seemed like we had one at least two or three times a month, usually either on Sunday nights or after the service on Sunday morning. The reasons given for having a covered dish supper ran the gamut from celebrating some significant anniversary to mourning someone’s death. Sometimes it seemed like any excuse would do. The thought was that people who eat together, stay together, I guess.

The work that went into a covered dish supper was done by a surprisingly small group of women. These were the ladies who actually ran the church, worker bees who could organize a meal for 150 people in a matter of minutes, with enough food to fill rows of folding tables for as far as the eye could see. Then, after it was over, they would drag their husbands in from the parking lot to put away the tables and chairs, carry out the trash and mop the floors. It was an amazing organizational and culinary feat.

But, the covered dish supper eventually disappeared from my life. First I started attending a much larger congregation where the sheer size of the membership made impromptu meals problematic. Then about six years ago I joined a Presbyterian church and apparently we don’t do the covered dish thing. At Hope, we have meals catered! I didn’t realize how much I have missed it until this past Sunday. I attended a retirement celebration for my Mother in Law, 25 years of service as the church secretary at Hunton Baptist church. It was my first time inside a Baptist church in a while…same exact smell. After the service we were herded through the vestibule, across the narthex, into the fellowship hall, where we were greeted by this…

The ham slices were half an inch thick. The fried chicken wasn’t from Chick-fil-A. Was it homemade? Maybe. Then came a plethora of macaroni dishes, mac and cheese, and mac and some such thing which I couldn’t identify. There were green bean casseroles, corn pudding, and three different options for potato salad. There were deviled eggs, black-eyed peas and a giant bowl of butter beans. There were only three beverage options, water, sweet tea, and coffee.

The dessert table was filled with pre sliced cakes, pies, cupcakes and cookies. Four types of pound cakes (I sensed that perhaps there was a backstory of feuding bakers), pecan pie, and one plate of brownies that remained untouched—no doubt a back story there as well.

It was a lovely meal and a joyful experience to revisit.

As we were leaving I tried to stay clear of the army of stern-faced old men as they lifted the tables and chairs onto racks and rolled them away. 

Probably stored them in the…narthex.

Thanks, Lucy

Each morning when I lift the lid of my iPad part of me is holding my breath. What horrors of human depravity might await me? What events hatched overnight from the four corners of this world will threaten my life and livelihood? This morning was relatively normal. The conflict in Gaza threatening to evolve into WWIII, the Maine shooter found dead at his own hand, Matthew Perry found dead in his hot tub.

This morning’s stories were made easier to process by the presence of…my dog.

Lucy picks and chooses her days. She doesn’t always hop up on the sofa beside me as I drink my morning coffee and read the news. She is a notoriously late sleeper, not a morning dog. But occasionally she finds her way downstairs and takes her place beside me as I read. More times than I can count Lucy will let out a loud and long sigh at the precise moment when I have discovered a particularly disconcerting story of man’s inhumanity to man. Unimaginative people will dismiss this as coincidence. But dog people know better. We understand this as more proof that dogs are angels. Each time I hear Lucy sigh I look at her and give her hip a scratch and I am comforted. I am reminded that she has everything that she needs, a warm house, loving people, good food and yummy treats at the ready. And so do I.

Thanks, Lucy

Not Exactly a Disaster But…

Tonight the recipe was for pasta bolognese with Italian sausage. I was amped up for this one because I had never made it before. When Pam got home I made a big deal about how I didn’t want her to help me. I wanted to do everything myself. Incidentally, in the writing trade this is what is known as foreshadowing.

Everything started out well. I had laid out all the ingredients and read the recipe instructions through from start to finish at least three times. I was ready. First I chopped up the onions and carrots. Pam sat at the counter working on her laptop pretending to not be watching my work. During the slicing phase the only thing she said was, “be sure to cut them up in small pieces.” As I attempted to follow her advice I noticed that more and more bits of onion and carrots were flying all over the place, glancing off the backsplash, skidding across the floor, a complete hack job. But I persevered.

By the time I was ready to toss the tray of Italian sausage into the Dutch oven, beads of sweat had formed on my forehead. Pam reminded me to be sure and break the slab of sausage up into small pieces. Apparently this dish requires everything to be small. As I began to break up the sausage I discovered that when I had lifted the slab out of its styrofoam tray I had forgotten to peel off the thin paper liner on the back. As I began to break it up with the wooden spatula I realized my ghastly mistake, then set about picking out pieces of the paper from the Dutch oven for the next ten minutes, feeling like an idiot. It was about this time when I began to notice a strange smell. It wasn’t a bad smell necessarily but it wasn’t particularly appetizing either. My spirits began to flag.

Now it was time to add the beef broth and diced tomatoes. This was completed without incident. I glanced over at Pam and found her engrossed in some problematic email, completely ignoring me. This buoyed my spirits. If she was ignoring me I must be doing alright. At this point the recipe called for 12 oz of pasta which I first had to rinse with cold water—a confusing instruction that I had have explained to me. Something to do with rinsing off extra starch. Whatever.

Finally, an hour after I had begun the project, the dish was ready to be served. However when I dished it out of the Dutch oven on to the plates it was…runny.

Pam, who is like a cooking detective when it comes to finding where I went off the rails, looked at the recipe and opined that I had erred by placing a cover on the Dutch oven while it was cooking. This prevented the excess liquid from properly evaporating. But, she was soon exclaiming with great enthusiasm how wonderful it tasted. My wife is like my hype man. She’s constantly giving me excessive praise for my efforts at the stove. Clearly, she doesn’t want me to get discouraged. But after tonight I’m starting to question the motivation behind all these accolades. Hmmm…

Tomorrow night Sharon is bringing us dinner.

Thank God.

Even though tonight’s effort wasn’t the greatest I have to admit that its a little bit…fun. If I had to do this every night for the next 20 years it probably wouldn’t be. How Pam has managed to do this for the past 40 years is something very close to a miracle. But the bottom line of all this is the fact that at the end of the day I am enjoying taking care of her.

How Many Deaths Are Enough?

When Hamas terrorists rampaged through southern Israel on the morning of October 7th killing over 1400 people and kidnapping over 200 others, the entire world knew that once the Israelis overcame the initial humiliation of being caught so dreadfully unaware, their military response would be overwhelming and deadly. Hamas, the organization which governs the Gaza Strip, has in its very charter the stated goal of wiping Jews and specifically the Jewish state off the map. The citizens of Gaza voted to install Hamas into power, replacing the Palestinian Authority in 2007. But that isn’t to suggest that all Gazans are part of Hamas, anymore than it would be accurate to say that all Americans are Democrats because Joe Biden is President. As the kids like to say…it’s complicated.

So here we are 17 days after the barbaric invasion where brave terrorists killed babies and kidnapped grandmothers at $10,000 a pop, with a death toll in Gaza of 5,000. And the threatened Israeli ground invasion hasn’t even started. The world has reacted in largely predictable ways. Many in the West have expressed cautious solidarity with Israel while most of the Muslim world have hit the streets in support of Hamas. Chants of Jihad, Jihad, Jihad ring out through the streets of London.

It is extremely difficult to understand what it must be like to live in a place where you are surrounded on all sides by people who despise you and want to see you dead. I try to imagine what it would be like as a Virginian to be the avowed enemy of everyone in Maryland, West Virginia and North Carolina…how it would feel to have survived two wars where all three states attacked you at the same time just in your lifetime, and what my reaction might be to events of October 7th if they occurred in Danville or Winchester?

My own personal opinion falls into the camp of those who believe that Israel has the right to defend their existence and to avenge their dead. To do any less would seem to me to guarantee more of the same. But, how far does the right of self defense and justice for innocent victims go? Are 5,000 dead Gazans enough? If not, what is the correct number of dead?

I hear Israeli generals and some politicians talk of the annihilation of Hamas and I wonder how that can be done without also annihilating innocent Gazans. Which brings up the thorny question of are there innocent Gazans? I think back to World War II and the bombing of Dresden. Were the thousands of German citizens killed in that horrific bombing raid all Nazis? Were they all combatants? Or, after the full extent of Nazi brutality had been revealed was Dresden an act of vengeance for the horrors that the Germans had inflicted on the world? These are all unthinkable matters. Debates will rage for all eternity about what rules, if any, are appropriate during wartime.

Which brings me back to the Middle East. We say we support Israel’s right to defend itself. How long will that support hold? So far with 5,000 dead the support is complete. But at what point do we waver? 10,000 dead? 25,000? 100,000? In addition, should we ask a question of Israel as the death toll and destruction increase—what are your plans for Gaza after the killing stops? Is it to be rebuilt, or just bulldozed, salted over and abandoned, whatever Palestinians still alive left to go back to their Bedouin roots and roam what’s left of the desert? Hard questions for hard times.

Making Dinner While Arguing with Myself

I’ve cooked several dinners since Pam broke her wrist. It’s not like I have no experience cooking, so I do alright. But as I laid all the ingredients out that I would need to make tonight’s meal it occurred to me that for 40 years Pam has made roughly 90% of our meals. That’s an incredible accomplishment. Yeah, I clean up the kitchen afterwards, but that takes no time at all and certainly no planning or shopping. 

I made soup. Black-Eyed Pea with collard greens and sausage soup. I had made it before. As I set about slicing up the carrots and celery my mind began sifting through the news of the day. There’s more death and dying in the Middle East. The Republican Party seems completely inept, unable to elect their own Speaker of the House. The President of the United States seems small, ancient and not up to leading the country through what could possibly end up as World War III. As I turned my attention to dicing up a cup of yellow onion I thought how easy it would be to write a blog entitled, “The Case For Panic”. The world seems on the precipice of something foreboding and dangerous, and most Americans I know have lost all faith in the institutions of the country. The reasons for despair are ascendant in practically every segment of society.

I forgot how long it took me to get everything cut, chopped, diced, measured and into the pot. Time stands still when you’re cooking it seems. Plus, its hard to stay in the moment when you’re arguing with yourself. Couldn’t I just as easily write a blog entitled, “The Case For Confidence” ? If the experiences of my 65 years have taught me anything its that things are never as bad as they seem. Are the present troubles more fraught, more dangerous than what our parents endured from 1929 through 1945? How many Americans must have looked at the devastation of the Great Depression and thought “How in God’s name are we going to survive this mess with an aristocrat President who’s never done an honest day’s work in his life?” Haven’t the times managed to forge the leaders we needed for the moment in the past? How many catastrophes have we survived just in my lifetime? Isn’t the lesson of history one of survival?

As the soup simmered on the stove, I whipped up the Red Lobster biscuits. Don’t panic. It was from a box. Even an idiot could do it…

Now all that was left was to wait around in the kitchen watching the oven, making sure not to burn the biscuits. As I poured the tea I thought about how much worse off we are as a people because of social media and the 24 hour news cycle. We are bombarded with every snippet of terrible news. All. Day. Long. If there was no such thing as the internet, we would be busy living our lives instead of counting down the doomsday clock every day. Of course, without the internet, this blog would make even less sense than it normally does.

Dinner was pretty decent, at least Pam said so. Cleaning up the mess afterwards was a picnic compared to cooking. I’ve definitely gotten the best end of that deal for 40 years. I think I owe her.

That Hospital in Gaza

I heard the report on the radio as I was driving home from work. A hospital somewhere in Gaza had been hit by a rocket and hundreds of people had been killed. The very first thought that flashed through my mind was—How will this effect the markets? It was a shameful moment. Later last night after recovering some moral balance I began to think about the ghastly scene in that horrible place, dead body parts strewn around like so much garbage at a landfill. The number of deaths had been estimated at 500. I found photographs on the internet, most of them unsuitable to publish in this space.

Predictably, two narratives have emerged. Palestinian representatives immediately blamed a rocket fired by Israel. Spokesmen for the IDF blamed a misfired rocket launched from a nearby cemetery by one of many free agent terror gangs operating in Gaza, the Palestinian Islamic Jihad. Most western journalists first went with the Palestinian story, only later adding the rebuttal from the Israelis. Who to believe in this case depends very much on which side you’re on, I suppose. On the one hand, various terrorist organizations in this troubled real estate have routinely situated military equipment in and around hospitals and schools, using these civilian areas as human shields against just such an attack. On the other hand in the past the IDF has shown no hesitation in ignoring the shields if the target was rich enough. Regardless of where the bomb came from, a hospital in Gaza is now a morgue.

Into the midst of such carnage and inhumanity strides our President. The decision to send Joe Biden into a war zone is meant to demonstrate support for our long time ally and to signal our firm resolve to other actors in the region. There are also political benefits to such a dramatic and potentially dangerous trip for the President. It will go a long way to dispelling the he’s too old narrative. This will only work if he can avoid a meandering, slurring, incomprehensible press conference performance—never a sure thing.

It’s difficult for me to conjure up a rooting interest. The list of innocent civilians targeted and slaughtered by Palestinian terrorists in my lifetime is staggering. Neither am I a fan of the State of Israel. They are an independent nation with their own interests which often conflict with ours and yet we seem hell-bent on marching with them into each and every abyss they have stumbled upon for the last 75 years. In addition, being a proud isolationist when it comes to foreign policy, I am always against spilling American blood defending someone else’s interests, no matter how many innocents are caught in the cross-fire. War is hell, after all.

However, if I was forced at gunpoint to pick a side, to declare myself, it would be an easy choice. Israel. Why?

Is it because of some tortured theological interpretation from Christianity which confuses the State of Israel with the Jewish people? That whole “any nation that opposes Israel be damned” business? No.

Is it the brutality of Hamas, the shooting of babies, the indiscriminate murder and rape of grandmothers? No.

For me it comes down to something very simple. Who is more likely to kill me if they encountered me on the street, an Israeli citizen or a member of Hamas? If I, a 65 year old American man, was found walking down a residential street in Tel Aviv as opposed to say Deir al-Balah, where would I more likely get killed? Where would I feel safer, Riyadh or Jerusalem? Tehran or Haifa? San Francisco or Chicago? (No, just kidding about that last one!!)

I suppose it boils down to which of these two troubled populations have the higher respect for innocent life? Although neither of them are exactly Quakers, the society that has demonstrated the most regard for the traditional virtues prized by civilization would be Israel. Which of them is more likely to shoot me point blank in the face? Hamas.

I just wish that my first response to this horrifying news had been a deep mourning and regret for the spilt blood of innocents instead of something as temporary and self absorbed as the balance of my investment accounts.

The Luckiest

We rolled into Short Pump just before noon yesterday after a thankfully uneventful two day drive. Three things happened that I want to tell you about, all three remarkable.

When you return from three weeks away from home, there’s a lot to do and all of it needs to be done right away. Arriving home on a Sunday makes this situation even more stressful and hectic than normal since the working world lurks a mere 20 hours in the future. Unpacking the car, washing, drying and folding loads and loads of laundry, and replenishing your bare pantry all demand attention at a time when you’re already worn out from two days on the road. Now, throw in a wife who has only one serviceable hand and…well you get the picture. I am told that times like thsee are learning opportunities and indeed I have found this to be true. With each load of laundry that came out of the dryer I was enlisted to place clothing on hangers as Pam handed each item to me. I have learned that there is a right and wrong way to hang clothes. I always thought that all you had to do was pick up a hanger and shove it in the neck area of the shirt. But, Pam was aghast at this technique. Apparently, there is a better way. One must always point the open end of the hanger to the left, and when hung in the closet, the front of the garment must always face left. I never knew this. I always thought that nothing approaching a protocol would exist for the hanging of clothes in a closet. I certainly felt sheepish to be taught this at age 65.

But, I digress. Now, for the three remarkable things.

First, my mother and father-in-law showed up at the house after they got home from church with a delicious chicken casserole and a tin of fresh baked brownies. In our forty years together, my in laws have always been so clutch. They always turn up at the perfect time with help in its perfect form. Thanks, Russ and Vi.

Then our friends Chip and Lynn show up with a Mexican casserole, a bag of tortilla chips and two cans of some quirky high octane IPA that Chip found someplace. In addition, Lynn thought to bring some gadget that she thought might help Pam with her one-handedness, a very Lynn thing to do. Now I won’t have to actually make dinner until Tuesday night. Thanks, Lynn and Chip.

Finally, it was time for the two angel girls who live next door to show up on our steps with a handful of “get well cards” they had made for Pam. Each was a delight. The oldest, Kennedy, had also broken her left wrist a while back and was acutely aware of how painful it can be. Here is a portion of one of her cards…

Out of the mouths of babes…She is the cutest philosopher to ever live. Thanks, Sully and Kennedy.

A person can handle a lot of adversity if they have a family who loves and supports them, devoted and thoughtful friends, and neighbors who love and care for them like family. 

We are the luckiest.