A potluck. A small church. There is more food here than people. A cooler of iced tea. Casseroles out the front door. Coffee. Coke. Fried chicken. I never met a potluck I didn’t like. Not even when I was in Kentucky and there was a casserole that allegedly had chunks of raccoon in it. I […]Fried Chicken
True, that, Sean. Even church ladies in Iowa, for all their gossiping and politicking, cooked like mad, worried that everyone ate enough, and always, always believed in miracles.