Picture my church’s Thanksgiving potluck. Long tables covered with platters of steaming turkey, slow cookers brimming with dressing and green beans and potatoes, bowls of fruit salads and vegetable salads and Snickers “salads” (one Midwestern oxymoron I can’t quite accept), and pies of every kind.
The cooks step back and survey the table, satisfied. Kids sidle closer as the last dishes get nudged in among earlier ones.
Someone wedges a tub of store-bought broccoli salad in behind the homemade offerings, looking apologetic.
And off to the side fidgets someone who arrived empty-handed, wondering if they’re really welcome at this table.