A Little Bit Like Home

The Smell Waiting at the Bottom

of the Stairs

We didn’t call them potlucks. At our church, they were carry-in dinners.

You could smell them before you ever reached the bottom of the basement stairs. The aroma would drift upward, meeting you halfway: baked ham, scalloped potatoes, vegetables in creamy sauces, and just enough sweetness from the dessert table to make a kid walk a little faster. By the time you stepped off the last stair and into the basement, you already knew it was going to be a good day.

Church was upstairs. Family ate together downstairs.

The women of the Christian Women’s Fellowship orchestrated everything, though as a kid I didn’t pay much attention to how it came together. I just knew to fall in line on the steps and wait my turn, balancing a real plate in my hands and trying not to stare too obviously at the dishes as they came into view.

Casseroles filled most of the countertop, arranged side by side in glass dishes and aluminum pans, many still wrapped in foil. Vegetables appeared in every form imaginable, often topped with something cheesy or buttery that made them feel less like vegetables and more like comfort food. Homemade rolls sat in baskets lined with cloth napkins, and somewhere nearby would be a crockpot keeping something warm.

The Jell-O salads were their own category entirely. Lime Jell-O with pears was a favorite, along with anything involving fruit cocktail or whipped topping. The layered ones felt especially fancy, as if someone had invested extra time just to make it look pretty. The orange Jell-O with carrots, however, was a mystery I never quite solved. Who decided vegetables belonged in Jell-O in the first place? Some questions are better left unanswered.

Mom always brought an assortment of dishes. She made more than our family could possibly eat, because running out of food was never an option at a carry-in dinner. Grandma arrived with a casserole and a dessert, her glass dish nestled inside one of those wicker-and-raffia holders. “Don’t carry it by the handles,” she would remind us. “Hold it underneath.” It was less a suggestion and more a rule passed down through generations.

The basement itself had its own personality. The concrete floor still showed the outline of a shuffleboard court from years earlier, though carpet eventually covered it. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Folding tables stretched across the room, surrounded by rows of metal chairs designed more for durability than comfort. Curtainlike room dividers that normally split the space into classrooms were tied back, opening everything into one large room filled with conversation and the clatter of serving spoons.

Before anyone ate, someone would offer a prayer — often Landon Wallace, Stanley Swanson, or Red Turner. They weren’t polished speeches, just heartfelt words spoken plainly and sincerely. Heads bowed, hands folded, the room grew quiet in a way that felt respectful rather than formal. When the amen came, the sound of chairs shifting signaled that it was time.

Kids usually went first. I never knew what the age cutoff was, but before long I was on the other side of the line, pouring drinks and clearing plates and silverware, following the lead of my older brothers and sister. It felt good to be part of the work, to contribute to something that mattered.

People sat wherever there was space, with family, with friends, sometimes both at the same table. Conversations overlapped and laughter came easily. No one seemed in a hurry to finish. This wasn’t “eat and go.” It was stay awhile.

When the meal ended, the cleanup began almost automatically. Plates were stacked, silverware gathered, leftovers packed away. Chairs were folded and tables carried back to the storage area, heavy enough that it usually took two people. Before long, the basement returned to its quieter state, as if the whole thing had been a shared dream that would reappear again in a few weeks.

Church was already family, but those meals made us closer. They slowed us down, gave us time to sit together, and reminded us that fellowship was something you practiced, not just something you talked about.

Tom Brand writes the weekly A Little Bit Like Home column, reflecting on life, family, faith, and the moments that shape who we become. He learned early at church carry-in dinners to keep his fork, because the best was always yet to come. Find more at ALittleBitLikeHome.com.