Overachievers

and a recipe for grilled radishes with dates, apples and radish tops

“Thanks for your compliment, but I have to say they didn’t taste like hot cross buns OR cinnamon rolls.”

“The challah didn’t have my usual texture.”

“The rhubarb cake recipe is great, but today’s execution wasn’t my best.”

“The lamb is good but it’s a little dry.”

—overheard at a recent Easter gathering

Is there anything more easy or daunting than the potluck dinner?

In the collective gathering, the pressure is off everyone. Just one dish to contribute, with the ease or difficulty of the recipe left to our own discretion. The clean-up is a breeze—we go home with the plate we brought, and if we’re lucky, perhaps some delicious leftovers for dinner the next day.

Yet in the abundance that usually characterizes a potluck, the erstwhile guest and dish-bearer is like an anxious parent at a soccer game. Will the dish be a hit? Will the other guests exclaim over it, ask who made it, beg for the recipe? And if none of that happens, is it a failure?

How is it that everyone else seems to show up with crowd-pleasers, while we’re the ones nervously explaining what it was supposed to taste like?

Call it the curse of the overachiever.

pot·luck

/ˌpätˈlək/

noun

plural noun: potlucks

used in reference to a situation in which one must take a chance that whatever is available will prove to be good or acceptable.

North American

a meal or party to which each of the guests contributes a dish.

The word potluck traces back to 16th-century England, where it meant “the luck of the pot”—whatever food was available for an unexpected guest. The earliest recorded usage was in 1592 by playwright Thomas Nashe¹. According to Smithsonian Magazine, this early meaning reflected a kind of humble hospitality, not a social event.

The communal, bring-a-dish version we know today emerged much later in North America in the late 1800s, especially in rural communities, churches, and schools. It’s no surprise that this seemed to coincide with the rise of community cookbooks, often centred around women’s groups, churches, and civic organizations. These low-tech spiral-bound books became a tangible way to pass along family favourites, recipes that were very likely shared in real life at a church social, a fundraising bazaar, a family reunion.

“There is a comfort in rituals, in the familiar movements and motions we’ve repeated over time. They are the scaffolding of our days.”

—Shauna Niequist, author and essayist

There was a time when food felt more or less the same—go to someone’s home for dinner and you’d find the usual suspects: Brunswick stew, beef stroganoff, Swedish meatballs, veal paprika. The little twists each housewife added became legend, immortalized in those community cookbooks, and made real with their pride of place at local gatherings.

Then came the era of modern cookbooks and chefs, where the goal shifted to originality, innovation, and the pursuit of a signature dish, style, ingredient, or method—Joshua McFadden’s kale salad, Yotam Ottolenghi’s roasted eggplant with yogurt and pomegranate, Samin Nosrat’s buttermilk-brined roast chicken, Alison Roman’s salted chocolate chunk shortbread, David Chang’s use of umami-rich ferments, and the widespread embrace of techniques like sous vide or reverse searing.

But now, in the age of TikTok and viral recipes, we’ve come full circle—everyone rushing to make the same baked feta pasta or crispy rice bowl, once again cooking from a shared repertoire. The repetition feels familiar, communal—less about standing out, more about joining in.

I admit I’m conflicted. It's the slow food build of community classics vs the rapid-fire speed at which we’re all cooking the same things at the same time. In the middle, I fear that originality, our own twists, the way we approach a dish, is in danger of being lost.

Bringing something to the table

Many years ago, while attending a cooking class at Bonnie Stern’s eponymous school, someone asked her how to get all the plates to the table while still keeping everything hot. I’ve never forgotten her reply: “People are so happy not to be cooking, and to be with you, that it doesn’t matter if the plates are hot.” That struck me deeply and changed the way I approached dinner parties forevermore. It was also the start of a lifelong friendship with Bonnie that I cherish deeply.

I think about that often at potlucks. The food may shine, but the real magic is in the alchemy of our gathering. We are together to find joy in each other’s company, to burnish memories that create the real feeling of plenty. For us overachievers, the potluck is a kind of gentle lesson: not everything has to be a triumph. The happiness around the table is the most magical seasoning of all.

And isn’t that, at its heart, the quiet beauty of the potluck? Your collective gifts to the communal table, received with gratitude, eaten with appreciation. Maybe that’s the real recipe worth passing on.

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Grilled radishes with dates, apple and radish tops

Joshua McFadden, Six Seasons

serves 4

Hooray! It’s spring. The market had the season’s first asparagus, the radishes were glorious, and strawberries are two weeks away. When you eat as seasonally as we do, these milestones are momentous.

It also means it’s time to take out my well-thumbed and well-loved copy of Joshua McFadden’s brilliant cookbook, Six Seasons. McFadden is a self-proclaimed “vegetable whisperer,” and that talent shines in every page of this gorgeous book. While I use it throughout the year, it really goes into heavy use from now until October, taking full advantage of the glorious feast that Mother Nature is sharing with us. The best kind of potluck of all.

Ingredients

1 bunch radishes; keep the tops if they’re fresh

1-2 tablespoons cup extra virgin olive oil, more as needed

Kosher salt and black pepper

Piment d’Espelette or dried chili flakes

1-2 teaspoons red or white wine vinegar

4 ounces pitted dates, cut into small pieces

1 apple, halved, cored, and thinly sliced

½ small red onion, thinly sliced

½ cup lightly packed flat-leaf parsley leaves

½ cup chopped toasted almonds

1. Heat the oven to 450°F. Alternatively you can use a ridged griddle or grill pan; this gives you lovely grill marks on your radishes.

2. If using the radish tops, cut them off and wash them thoroughly in cool water. Dry them in a salad spinner.

3. Heat 1 tablepoon of olive oil in a skillet over medium-high heat. Add the radish tops and cook, stirring lightly, until slightly wilted. Season with salt, black pepper, and a pinch of Piment d’Espelette. Cook for a few more seconds until tender. Let the tops cool slightly.

4. Chop the tops and place in a bowl. Add 1 teaspoon of vinegar and toss to combine. Taste and adjust seasoning if needed. Add a drizzle of olive oil and set aside.

5. Scrub the radishes and cut them in half. Roast them for 12 to 15 minutes, turning occasionally, or until they are just tender to the touch. Let the radishes cool slightly. If using a ridged pan, cook the radishes on high eat.

6. Combine the halved radishes in a large bowl with the dates, apple, red onion, parsley, and cooked radish greens. Season with salt and pepper. Add one tablespoon of olive oil and the chopped almonds. Toss everything together, taste and adjust seasonings.

1. Oxford English Dictionary Online, s.v. “potluck,” https://www.oed.com/view/Entry/148780.