Pasta and potlucks

This afternoon, Alice and I went to a potluck. I put together a pasta+weiner+stewed tomato casserole. In the pot, it seemed bland, boring, unappetizing. I cracked a lot of pepper into it (figuring the canned tomatoes and weiners were freighted with enough salt already), fried some cubed buns into croutons and tossed those in, then fried (more fat!) crushed Ritzes for a topping. But after that, I literally had nothing left to add. I stood there wondering what else I could do and realized that I had no choices.

Usually, there are options. There's a rack full of spices, a crisper full of veggies, a freezer full of meat. And if I can't find something there, I usually can drive to the store to get what I want. Or, I can go out to eat. But not now, not when I'm limited to cooking with the ingredients that occupy a few--and ever-shrinking--square feet of counter space.

It's a bit of a cliche, I admit: the realization that choice is not equally available to all. But it struck me that my choices were becoming narrower in a more fundamental way. It wasn't simply that I had no seasoning options, that I had nothing tasty to add that might satisfy my craving. Rather, my choices had shrunk to two: eat that particular pot of pasta or be hungry all night. So, really, I had only one choice, which amounts to no choice at all.

We took our casserole to the potluck and ate it all ourselves. We had a good time there (thanks, Ken and Joan!). Someone brought a very cheesy lasagne, someone else sweet and sour chicken, someone else bean salad. There was a pecan caramel chocolate cheesecake. There was apple pie with cheddar. All of it looked very, very good. Both Alice and I managed to stick with what we'd brought. But we did bring some home to put in the freezer for Friday.