The Casserole Incident

First Methodist annual potluck. The fellowship hall smells like Sterno and someone's hairspray. Edna Pemberton is at the casserole table; she has caught you with a forkful from her new recipe before you understood you were close enough to be caught. You swallowed it. There was a faint fizz that can't be right. The aftertaste is doing something to your jaw. Pastor Dan is doing his big laugh in the corner; you can hear him over three conversations. Margaret is at the dessert line, wooden spoon in hand, mostly watching the children. You have not yet committed to a direction.