As a young girl, I looked forward to potluck dinners in the basement of our small church.
I would stand at the top of the stairs and inhale the smell that was wafting its way up from the kitchen, causing my mouth to water and then I’d race down as fast as I could.
The various and sundry dishes seemed to stretch on forever.
My favorite thing to do, before it all began, was to walk up one side of the tables and down the other, trying to see all that was there. If I stretched my neck and stood on my tip toes I could just get a glimpse of what was in the those wonderful smelling dishes.
The good old standbys always brought a smile to my face; fried chicken, orange jello and deviled eggs. But other dishes like vegetables or weird salads would make me wrinkle my nose and rejoice that at this dinner I didn’t have to have a “no thank you” helping. And then there were the desserts, as usual the ladies of our church had out done themselves with warm brownies fresh out of the oven,…
