The first potluck I attended with my husband’s family wasn’t too bad. I brought brownies, nothing fancy, but people seemed to like them.
Chloe, however, raised an eyebrow and said, “Oh, how quaint. Boxed mix?” It was her way of telling me I was beneath her, though she smiled sweetly while she said it.
The second potluck, I made a pasta salad from scratch, carefully chopping vegetables and making a vinaigrette.
Chloe wrinkled her nose and told me she’d asked everyone to bring something “elevated.” Apparently, “elevated” meant things like salmon tartare, imported cheeses, and artisanal breads—things that were way out of my budget.
She and her husband lived very comfortably, but my husband and I were still paying off student loans and trying to save for a house.
By the third potluck, I dreaded the invitation. This time Chloe sent out a long group text with “suggested” dishes, which included duck pâté, sushi platters, and lobster mac and cheese.
