Several years ago, the dads at our church set out to solve the problem of Mothers Day: Moms shouldn’t have to cook, but restaurants are packed for the holiday. Solution: a Mothers Day luncheon hosted by the church.
In theory, it’s a fantastic idea. The church provides ham and fried chicken (this is the South, y’all). Nobody fights restaurant crowds. Mothers are properly fêted. The men get away with not cooking.
In reality, it leaves a few women in a huff each year. Each family must bring a side dish and dessert for ten. No self-respecting competitive woman is willing to stake her household’s culinary reputation on chips and Oreos her husband grabbed from the store. A good church potluck is an Olympic event, with empty pans for prizes. Someone begging “you must send me this recipe!” is a higher honor than hearing your national anthem from the podium. So, while the bewildered men scratch their heads, the moms stomp off to their kitchens. They arrive in high dudgeon on Sunday morning toting a screaming toddler under one arm and a leaking pyrex under the other.
Thankfully, by the closing Gloria Patri (sung, alas, in English – these are Reformed Presbyterians) the delicious smells wafting from the church kitchen have done a lot to smooth ruffled feathers. And really? It’s hard to be cranky when facing a dessert table holding ten feet of trifles, cobblers, brownies, cookies, tarts, scones, bars, cakes, berries, and muffins:
This photo was taken by a friend and posted to the church facebook page (sorry – I can’t properly credit her while maintaining her anonymity). I think that’s her eldest son’s hand sneaking in for an early raid on the sugar-fest.