10 Dishes That Will Go Untouched At A Potluck

Nobody wants to do the potluck walk of shame; the one where you're forced to reclaim your pristine crock of "chicken surprise" from a table that's been picked clean, later eating it at home — confused and alone — while mentally replaying the last 24 hours, wondering what went wrong. Not enough salt? Was it Ritz instead of Ruffles on top? Did freaking Susan shiv me by bringing that bucket of KFC? Bless your heart, but if you bring these dishes to a potluck, there's a reason nobody's going to touch 'em with a 10-foot pole.

Before you get your compostable sporks in a bunch, this isn't a dig at non-cooks, "fuelies" who eat for energy instead of pleasure, or other personal and cultural preferences — nor is it a pile-on involving Aunt Myrtle's famous Texas Trash dip with the canned refried beans which tastes way more delicious than it sounds. What might be one person's yuck could be another's yum. And yet, like CPR recertification, sometimes it's helpful, nay, essential, that we refresh ourselves on how to prevent others from choking on our OMG-what-even-is-that culinary inspirations.

We come to you in peace, with a mere guideline for the most universally successful shared eating experience possible. Break bread, gather together, and for the love of all things holy, save yourselves by leaving these potluck dishes for dead.

It's one thing to celebrate heritage recipes with a beloved icon of the genre (sweet spaghetti with hot dogs and banana ketchup, bring it on! Haven't tried it? Pick up Jollibee's signature fast food spaghetti, or make more dinner party-hosting Filipino friends), but under no circumstances should you force your go-to ramen with melted Kraft singles on other people. Just like the show "Nobody Wants This," nobody wants that.

We love baking for friends, but we try to bring our A-game when a pie or cake is leaving home to venture forth on its own. Think: Aspiring restaurant-level quality with homestyle flair, like the best mac and cheese recipe with a crunchy breadcrumb top. What we don't do, however, is assume that total strangers would also enjoy "giant bowl of popcorn because we didn't feel like cooking" as much as we do, paired with chocolate chips, or a spice blend that didn't quite work out. If you serve phoning-it-in energy with your potluck contribution, you'll have everyone blocking your number.

It doesn't matter if your budget-boujee is scalable from single-serve to family style, or your fridge surprise is presented in a disposable chafing dish. If you only eat this particular combo alone in front of the T.V., take this one to the grave, not your office holiday party.

We all love a new season of "The Great British Baking Show" to get those creative juices flowing. But don't let the rarely successful results of the blind technical challenge end up on the potluck buffet. This isn't a dinner for guinea pigs. Go with a tried-and-true recipe that you've tested at least once, where someone other than you confirmed its deliciousness. Think of this strategy like those bumpers that keep your bowling ball out of the gutter.

Allow us to present '90s evidence of this crime from the hit T.V. show "Friends." It's "The One Where Ross Got High," but — maybe more notably — it's also the one where Rachel Green made a Thanksgiving trauma trifle that was sweet and savory in the worst ways; maybe the jam, custard, sautéed beef, onions, and ladyfingers dessert concept was simply ahead of its time. Making a first attempt at a complicated dish, Rachel ultimately nailed a half-English-trifle, half-shepherd's-pie epic fail.

We speak from experience, having tortured people with our own rookie culinary enthusiasm. We once picked gloriously crisp apples from an orchard in Connecticut, only to desecrate their souls in an apple "pie" we didn't know needed actual sugar and spices, which we then served to people who previously trusted us. There was also our didn't-soak-the-dried-beans-first chili that turned out like rock hard pebble stew. Feel like mixing it up? Test your recipe, taste it, and then make it as many times as necessary before it goes public. You're trying to make friends, not ruin appetites.

We just want to thank everyone who has devoted the time to assembling deviled eggs for a potluck. Peeling flawless hard-boiled eggs is a gift; you are seen, and we hold space for your heirloom 35-egg multitiered Christmas tree platter. But if we haven't yet had the pleasure of getting to know each other, there's no chance we're touching your homemade eggs.

We admit this is a controversial opinion, since deviled eggs take top prize at just about any potluck. But room-temp deviled eggs made by someone who isn't a ride-or-die friend or known member of our family shall not enter. What other time is anyone thinking, "Yes, I'd like a hard-boiled egg that a stranger handled a ridiculous amount of times, and then left out on the table for an unknown number of hours?" Never. We only recently realized how tasty deviled eggs are because, over the course of years, we nurtured close friendships involving people who happen to make amazing deviled eggs. Our prior experience involved watching full trays of deviled eggs get slimy and sweaty under the sun at July Fourth cookouts. Wasps and flies, and a fine misting of aerosol sunblock, definitely added to the vibe.

If you're in a long-term, committed text thread with your potluck peeps, you may proceed. But make a recipe that's unique and devilishly divine, like Jacques Pépin's incredible pan-seared and stuffed eggs Jeanette. Thank you for coming to our TED Talk.

If you're wondering how long other guests will spend trying to figure out what, exactly, you brought to the potluck, time's already up. Shrinking attention spans and endless scrolling considered, you've got to sell your potluck prize faster than you can say "here you go."

We promise you, no one will touch the random yellow stuff if they can just as easily skip it and hit up the clearly identifiable pigs-in-a-blanket. Bring something people can pick out of a lineup, and nobody has to play whisper-down-the-lane about whatever that other thing is.

If your mystery dish really is a household name, you can save it from an identity crisis by giving it a little introduction. We once brought banana pudding to a dinner party with a whipped topping that completely obscured the insides. To save ourselves from having to be the ban'pud chaperone all night, we spelled out "B-A-N-A-N-A P-U-D-D-I-N-G" in chocolate letters on top, and scooped out a small serving at dessert time so guests could see those luscious layers of custard, bananas, Nilla wafers, and cream. Of course, ripping off Magnolia Bakery's iconic banana pudding recipe didn't hurt.

We love a true crime doc; we just don't want the topic to be about how we died of potluck "ceviche." Unless you're attending the annual gathering of the industrial refrigeration society — held in the conference room of a Nordic ice hotel — skip the hand rolls, sashimi, spicy salmon, aguachile, and tuna poke and stick to things on land that don't require precision temperature control.

We can't argue with the fact that people will 100% assume you just stepped off a private jet and zipped over to the potluck in a Rolls-Royce if you show up with oysters on the half shell and Champagne. But if those oysters were mishandled anywhere along the line, there's always a chance of seafood with a side of food poisoning. Care to hear about the other potential hurdles on the menu this evening? Well, we have a lovely surprise guest with a shellfish allergy, a triumphant food safe temperature that's truly impossible to match, as well as the chef's special: questionable preparation from someone else's home. Is this a Michelin-starred potluck? Nope, it's Debbie from accounting's thing. Dish accordingly.

Let's not stress ourselves out trying to be someone we're not. If you're not known as a home cook, hobby baker, or the "culinary curious" type — and especially if you just don't have time to potluck — be cool and buy something from the store. It's gonna be delicious, even if someone else made it; maybe especially if someone else made it. This is an intervention: You've been involving innocent bystanders in your torturous cooking, and it needs to stop.

Grocery stores are the new dining hot spot, so use this to your advantage. Who cares if your mini cupcakes get overlooked at the beginning of the meal; by the end of the night, people are going to be snatching up store-bought sweets with more enthusiasm than they could ever drum up for your flavorless attempt at chicken cacciatore.

Our sister's an excellent baker, but she buys a Wegmans Ultimate Chocolate Cake for her birthday because it's chocolate-on-chocolate heaven that's dripping with zero effort. If your mind is as blank as your pantry for ideas, hop on your local neighborhood app, or your favorite grocery chain Reddit thread, and jot down the pre-made foods people can't stop talking about. These, friends, are potluck winners. Swipe that credit card and call it a day.

We threw up a little bit in our mouth just thinking about this, but stale and expired items stain the good potluck name. Yes, a best-by date refers to ideal quality, and doesn't automatically mean the food is unsafe to eat. But who wants to struggle-bus your "fresh-baked" chocolate chip cookies from two weeks ago, with the geriatric, white-coated bloomed chocolate, and dust-like crunch? If they're still so "safe to eat," why didn't someone eat them already?

There's an unspoken agreement baked into a potluck; a trust that each participant brings something earmarked for the event, at peak freshness. A plastic clamshell container of formerly sweet and pillowy conchas, now fossilized and living in the shadow of a half-off sticker from last Wednesday, is winning no repeat party invites. It's the same story with a panettone from last year, old bags of pretzels from the back of your pantry, and forgotten Valentine's candy in July. Unless the theme is World War II rations, or depression dishes, make sure your contribution was made sometime this century.

Let's just be real: No matter how much we love the rest of our family, our pet is the favorite child. But no matter how cute, squiggly boopy, or scrumptious lil Daisy is, potluck puppy chow should be made with Chex, peanut butter, chocolate, and powdered sugar — not actual puppies.

Human hair in a restaurant dish waves a universal red flag that just about anyone would scramble to resolve. Honestly, for us, it's most likely one of our own long strands, forming a forever bond between us and our burrito. But pet hair can float under the radar — that is, until it's stuck to the bottom of your pasta salad bowl like the potholder nobody asked for. While you may be used to lint-rolling Gertie's silky Angora rabbit remnants from your leggings, the rest of us are not. No offense to Gertie.

We worked in an office with a woman who hosted a lovely wine and cheese gathering at her home, where she lived with several cats, as well as the antique spinning wheel that churned out cat hair yarn for knitted scarves and kitten mittens. Yet, exactly none of that hair was woven into the charcuterie board, or anyone else's offerings. A triumph. Take heed: If your home is like living in a snow globe of pet hair, keep Fluffy completely out of the communal cuisine.

This is a safe space, right? Let's take a moment together... breathe in... and out... so peaceful. Now, let us hold hands and make this gentle promise to each other and the whole of modern potluck civilization: If being vegan, keto, paleo, gluten-free, Zone, Atkins, or low FODMAP is the main selling point of your dish, it's no good. Get behind me, seitan!

Of course this is unrelated to food allergies or vegan-themed food swaps, and that type of thing. If you're bringing gluten-free brownies to a standard potluck, you're essentially bringing a gag gift to a party, like a Chia Pet wrapped up as brand new Le Creuset. Once its true identity is discovered, your dish instantly becomes the Debbie Downer of dinners. Unless there are other gluten-free folks there to enjoy it with you, it's probably best to just bring one personal serving of your sweet treat for yourself to enjoy.

This is especially painful if your alternative offering is a subpar riff on a crowd favorite, lacking the signature flavor and overall appeal of the OG. Think: mac and cheese, meatballs, and guacamole. Listen to us; people have calories they'd rather burn on something better than banana bread that looks and tastes like an actual brick. Be healthy on your own time, and bring a potluck dish that people who made the effort to put on pants and hold a conversation would also enjoy eating.

If your potluck dish requires more than one hand to serve, it's already too hard. Some might argue that even any serving tool is excessive, but we'll gladly give you a spoon, a toothpick, or a pair of tongs. Who knows where those hands have been? But if each portion of your dish requires some kind of Benihana-level showmanship? Ditch it.

Unnecessarily extravagant presentations include a wide array of items that are tasty, yet extremely annoying to serve with one hand. Examples include: whole loaves of bread, tacos, ice cream sundaes, omelets, soup, and loaded baked potato bars with serving utensils and heating elements. Flambé is a great way to get to know your local fire department and the wonderful medical professionals at your nearest burn unit, but nobody has time for slicing, dicing, flipping, or sautéing as they hangrily trudge through the potluck buffet line.

Alternatively, this is an awesome strategy if you brought something you'd rather take home at the end of the potluck — completely untouched. Perhaps Ina Garten's sour cream coffee cake topped with walnut streusel, oddly hiding under a locked cake carrier, without a knife or cake server in sight?