Potlucks are the lifeblood of Patagonia and, naturally, Patagonians like to party. There
seems to be a party every weekend in some way or another and the invite always reads “potluck.” There’s a few folks who bring their “A” game and some folks not so much (you know who you are). As a matter of fact, did you know the infamous quinoa-kale salad was born right here at a Patagonia potluck? (OK, not really but it seems plausible). So needless to say, I’ve attended my fair share of potlucks, do my best to bring my “A” game and I even
have a plate for it. This plate is the ugliest plate I own, given to me as a gift by a well-meaning friend and there’s a reason I won’t describe it. I have been running from it for
years.
When I received this plate I immediately decided this would become my potluck plate. I
could take my goodies to the party and not care if it ever came back to me. It always comes back. I have taken this plate to what seems like hundreds of parties, memorial services and
weddings with the intention of leaving it behind and with any luck, never seeing it again
only to find it sitting all washed and clean on the seat of my truck or handed to me by some
well-wisher.
Why not break the plate or give it away, you might ask? Well, some time ago, it became a game. How long could I run from this plate? How long before it found me? It took a week and a half one time and I was sure it was gone. Then I got the phone call, “Hello, Cassina, I have your plate. Can I drop it by your house later?” Are you kidding me? I thought I was
so careful. I do the checklist in my head: came in the back door. Check. wrapped the entire plate in tin foil to disguise plate. Check. took no credit for delicious brownies. Check. Somehow the plate comes back.
On its last outing it proved to have supernatural powers. (The details of this event have not been exaggerated.) After following all proper plate protocol (see check list above), I deposited the plate on the potluck table and made my way to my chair. To be extra certain no one would connect me to the plate, I didn’t eat. Furthermore I made no eye contact with the plate as I exited the building approximately one hour later. After the first week I was sure it would return and as week two closed in I had actually forgotten about it which makes this next part even creepier. I was alone, closing up the art center after an evening performance. As I walked through the building, turning off lights and straightening up chairs, there it was, sitting on a bench. It knew where I worked. To say I was uncomfortable standing there with that plate, in the dark, is an understatement. I took it home and marveled at how it had once again found me.
Last week I went to a party and of course I took the plate. The plate likes to go to parties. It does not like to get left behind. Point taken. (Cue spooky music)