Jump to recipe for award winning rhubarb bars

You will not be surprised to hear that I am a huge fan of cooking competition shows. And not just the classy ones where everyone is civilized and kind and the grand prize is an engraved plate presented over a larger-than-average tea. No, I also like the ones hosted by d-list celebrities, with kitchens full of people running and yelling “behind! behind!” – where, if the contestants can’t make a dessert out of peach O’s and catfish in 15 minutes, they lose out on $10,000.

I yell at them from the couch like I know better: “Come on, bro! that sauce-to-penne ratio is all wrong. What is this – your first week at Olive Garden???” (Then I high five myself over the sick burn and chug the rest of my peach sparkletini and almost understand the appeal of watching sports for a fleeting moment.) But the truth is, I only talk a big game. I get anxiety stomach cramps when I’m alone in my kitchen, trying to open a can of crushed tomatoes before my cumin burns on the stove. I know that if I set foot in even the gentlest cooking competition, I would immediately crumple under the pressure.

But the thing is, I still have a love of the game and the desire to show off how above-average I am at baking. So, I enter competitions where the stakes are so low, I’m sometimes the only one who knows a competition is happening.

It also won’t surprise any of you to know that I’m a huge fan of potlucks. I love seeing how everyone’s personalities shine through the dishes they bring; and being able to take tiny samples of eight different pasta salads; and side-eyeing the one guy who arrives with a bucket of KFC; and the way all this homey chaos comes together into an inexplicably satisfying feast. But what you might not know about me is that I am a potluck champion.

Perhaps you’re saying to yourself, “there’s no such thing as a potluck champion.” If so, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but this probably means you’ve been losing potlucks. When you squint at them from the right angle, potlucks have a lot in common with food competition shows: They challenge participants to meet specific challenges with creativity, while avoiding some common pitfalls. Therefore, you can also use a lot of proven, food contestant tactics to be successful at them.

I’ve been privately developing my TV-informed potluck strategy for many years. But now, without any potlucks to go to, I need to channel my big, “dish to pass” energy somewhere. So, I’m going focus on coaching. What follows is my guide to winning potlucks. If you follow these rules, you’ll be snatching (metaphorical) engraved plates in no time.*

*And by “no time,” I mean whenever potlucks are legal again – probably circa 2038.

Step 1: Win the mini challenge

Episodes of many food competition shows are divided into two parts: The mini challenge and the main heat. No one goes home after the mini challenge, but the losers receive a stern talking-to from the judges.”You’re better than this,” Duff Goldman says, as though filling macarons with pre-made jam is equivalent to asking Yahoo Answers users to write your report on The Great Gatsby for you. The winner receives an advantage in the main elimination round. A lot of times, this means they get to pick the combination of theme and flavors they want to use, while their competitors all get random assignments.

Selecting your own category and ingredients also gives you a strategic advantage at a potluck. It’s not always easy to do, though. Most hosts try to strike a balance where they embrace the “luck” in potluck, but also avoid ending up with five containers of Lofthouse cookies and no beverages. They might circulate a signup with a limited number of spaces for each course. In these situations, the signup itself is the mini challenge – the goal is to get there first.

I used to work at a place where our Christmas party was a big potluck. The signup sheet was incredibly detailed, with categories including “main dish (meat)”, “cheese and crackers” and “Oberweiss eggnog x 4.” As soon as I received the email that the signup had been posted on a nearby bulletin board, I shot out of my chair so fast I left it spinning. I wanted to make sure I got there in time to write “Caitlin (chocolate)” in one of the dessert spaces.

Admittedly, my hustle was pretty unnecessary. Many of my coworkers were less enthusiastic about cooking food for their own Christmas party. But that was fine by me – like I said, the fact that I was the only one who believed I was participating in a competition was all part of the strategy, baby.

Step 2: When baking, follow the brief and avoid distractions

There’s just something about the ice-cream maker in the Chopped kitchen. That $5K hunk of stainless steel seems to beckon to otherwise level-headed chefs like a siren. “Come closer,” it sings, “Don’t you think the judges would love some short rib sorbet? You know you want to try it…” The chef-testants want to show off their creativity and use a piece of equipment they don’t usually have access to. Unfortunately, their frozen dishes usually go off the rails. They either end up under-chilled and soupy, over-churned and lumpy, or they miss the point of the challenge all together. A similar thing happens with exotic pantry ingredients like squid ink and edible gold leaf. Contestants can’t resist trying them out, and they create dishes that are unique but unappetizing. “Points for creativity” is something the judges say when what they mean is, “boy, this sure doesn’t look or taste like food.” The critique doesn’t bode well for someone trying to win a food cooking competition.

Likewise, when selecting a potluck dish, it is important not to get distracted by new techniques and ingredients. I sometimes have a hard time following this one myself – I too have fallen prey to the siren songs of ice cream makers and intricate pie latices. But there are no points for creativity or “technical skill” at potlucks. The ultimate goal is to create something that everyone will actually enjoy eating. And, like on the Food Network, points will be deducted if you get too weird with the garnishes.

Step 3: Cultivate an appropriate rapport with the judges

On cooking competition shows, this is a difficult needle to thread. The most likable contestants are confident without being too mean or arrogant; can tell their heartwarming backstory without being too much of a downer; and can talk candidly about their food without making excuses or apologizing. These tactics will also serve you well at potlucks. To be honest though, this is where I slip up most often. Especially the “not apologizing” part. Julia Child said that you should never apologize at the table. It’s tiresome for a hostess’s guests to have to reassure her. Also, Julia says, “people will think, ‘Yes, it’s really not so good.'” I understand this logic. Still, whenever someone compliments my cooking, I’m overcome with an uncontrollable urge to list everything that’s wrong with it.

When someone says, “wow, these cookies are great!” I know, intellectually, what the correct response is: “Why thank you. They’re from my childhood church’s cookbook. Whenever I make them, I can practically smell the coffee that they brewed in the church fellowship hall. It was my idea to add the sea salt though.” *polite chuckle.* What comes out more often though is, “You don’t have to lie to me. I know they’re over baked. It’s my old Sunday school teacher’s recipe. She’s in a nursing home now, but if she could see what I did to her cookies, she’d be so disappointed.”

Like I said, I know I would fare very poorly on television.

When it’s your turn to accept accolades for your potluck offering, don’t follow my lead. Take the compliment. Share your heartfelt story. And when in doubt, let the food speak for itself.

Look, I know all this advice is moot right now. Attending potlucks is up there with licking Aldi refrigerator door handles as one of the most dangerous things you can do during a pandemic. I have no idea when I’ll be able to bring another sheet cake to a church picnic. And that’s wearing on me more than I can say. But I have to hope that, someday, we’ll be able to eat together again. We’ll stand next to our neighbors once more as we pile our plates high with spaghetti salad, tortilla chips and coffee cake. Until then, I will stay isolated in my kitchen, honing my skills on trays of bars. I’ll leave them on the doorsteps of friends with a smile and an awkward wave through the window. And I encourage you to do the same. When we finally meet again, if you take the potluck champion title from me, I won’t even be mad.

(…The first time. I will obviously challenge you to a rematch.)

A recipe for rhubarb bars is on the next page. They’re perfect for both spring potlucks and drive-by dessert-drops: unique without being too weird, hand-held and delicious. They even participated in an actual picnic contest once! It wasn’t a cooking competition – “taste” was not one of the judging criteria. And I myself was not competing. I just loaned the bars to some friends who were. But the dish was part of a picnic-scape that tied for fourth place – which is enough for me to call them “award winning.”