Getting more quality out of life is a common goal.
No matter what your health, age, situation, location. Making life for you and others better than it was, with what you have to work with should be a daily exercise. Turned to after the counting your blessings that Maine families do on both ends of the day.
We are a grateful bunch and pretty spread out thinly in a state not flush with cash.
But wealthy in what counts for natural beauty, space, values. Individuals step up but not for the attention, to hog the spotlight. But because it’s just the right thing to do. To show your kids how it is done. Awareness, appreciation of others around you. Sensing, just knowing your role and place in the Maine community. When there are not wall to wall populations to recruit for what needs doing. And family is everything.
Maine potluck supper gatherings of family, friends, community members are like five star dining.
Missing that same number of forks to create that kind of rich experience. Table talk adding the seasoning. The food made with love, past down tried and true tested dish recipes. And without any organization of menu inventory to make sure it comes out balanced.
Ever noticed how the potluck supper array is always the full compliment of dishes to sample? Everyone did not end up bringing the same pots of baked beans. No no, it’s salads of all types. Casseroles, scallops, Mexican dishes, Swedish meatballs and lasagna. Baked macaroni and cheese. Shrimp, hot wings. Lobster, ham, egg, tuna mini sub rolls.
Meat platters, veggie trays, breads, sweets and talk about pies. How can you pick when it is like a dessert pie Disneyland? You’re a kid again but taller.
Towering over the pie table that is no longer nose high. To study the blueberry, mince meat, graham cracker, coconut cream, apple, pumpkin, raspberry or wait a minute.
Is that strawberry rhubarb?
Excuse me, coming through. That last piece has my name on it just so’s you know. For munching after this blog post.
For as far as you can see, every conceivable kind of pie, cobbler, puddings, date square and cookies of all varieties. Show up to be sampled, seconded. To stack, chisel off a slab, finish the meal with a slice. Or with hot coffee, a cookie, date square. While you try to make room from the earlier courses roller coasted down the open wide pie hole.
Delicious, mouth watering food. Parked on your DOT highway portable scales bell ringing overloaded double paper plate.
Maybe the reason much of the made from memory, no cook book read along food is so good is it was prepared the way your Mom, Grandmother, Aunt Helen did. You don’t get this caliber food at a local restaurant, can not buy, duplicate it in can. Haul out of the grocery freezer anything on par.
The out of this world food usually found only where a very big meal end tip is expected, included. The meal made with individual love, passion, consideration, kindness. Like an offering bought to the supper to share with others who did the same act. But not the same dish.
Different people in a small Maine community. Not identical, and home made not store bought nutrients, sustenance, goodness under every covered dish makes it memorable.
Along with the conversation, task at hand in the small Maine community gathering at a church. Maybe it is held at a grange hall, a snow sled monthly club meeting, social gathering, someone’s backyard.
Like Forrest said about the not knowing what you are gonna get in that full life box of chocolates, it’s hard telling without knowing. Like that out in the community in a small Maine town. Most members hard working, realizing you get out what you put into what you bring to the table at that Maine potluck supper gathering.
The Harley driver who did not spend twenty thousand dollars for the ride with leather and shades, dew rag with the price sticker still showing.
With extra cash splashed for all the doo dad chrome accessories. The real Maine is like Buddy Schillinger. Buddy owned one very old, crippled Harley bike in a time when not everyone had one parked in their garage. Had run out and bought one too like it seems today everywhere you look.
This black two wheeler Harley bike rescued from its sleeping, twisted grave in a junk yard.
Nursed back to health. Parts scrounged for, patiently collected when the money in the thin wallet was not in abundance. Just not happening. Flowing in like there was a major restrictive life kink. But sufficient to keep juggling all the balls needed to live in his corner of Linneus Maine. And get the bike on the road. Eventually.
Tinkering in the one bay garage. That was a “you can have it if you move it” free situation. A master of having everything, eventually but as the third, fourth owner in a “living in gentile poverty” approach to life.
The black two wheeler originally built without a speedometer, turn signals old. And kept, preserved, run that way. The degree of wind in your hair, amount of bugs in your teeth telling you in your gut you are going the speed limit or not.
Lifting an arm and pointing a hand to show what direction the next turn is going to be naturally, not mechanically.
Like the potluck supper richness, goodness, the Harley was made road worthy with a prayer, shoe string budget, lots of late nights in the shop. Improvising, bartering, trading services to achieve something unique, special. Just not instant off the showroom expensive.
Maine is a four season state that many have to settle for one week’s vacation to do them the other fifty one weeks. I am so lucky, fortunate, grateful to live in Vacationland full time for the potluck rich experience on all levels surrounding me in a small Maine community.