Luck

I’ve never had much luck in the kitchen. College meals consist of peanut butter sandwiches and bowls of oatmeal, and cooking does not go far beyond the occasional omelet or scrambled egg. It doesn’t surprise me that potlucks have the name that they do. It would take a stroke of luck for me to be able to create a meal worth sharing with others.

Tonight was the monthly member potluck at the farm. Luckily though, I didn’t need to worry about coming up with a recipe, since my mom happens to be one of the greatest cooks I know. I spent the morning in the kitchen with her, closely following every direction she gave me, until a few hours later we pulled eggplant rollatini hot from the oven, ready to bring to the farm.

At the potluck tonight I sat next to a woman who told me about her father, her inspiration. This man traveled to nearly every country in the world, paid by a magazine to write about his passion, fishing. Figure out what you love to do, this woman said, then find someone to pay you to do it. We ate strawberry rhubarb and drank lemonade, listening to a man strum his guitar as children painted a tree stump and the sun colored the sky pink. I sat on the picnic bench thinking about luck and wondering if there was someone in the world who would pay me to stay right here forever.