Funeral Potatoes: How to Make An American Casserole

Funeral Potatoes: How to Make an American Casserole

Preparation:
1. Start with one dead child.

2. Knowing how utterly futile any attempts at comfort will be, harness this knowledge and propel yourself into action in the kitchen.

3. Add a dollop of pity.

4. You must - and this is important: lead with some form of condensed cream-based soup. (No one knows how much, Phyllis, just measure it with your heart.)

5. There should be cheese. Like a cup. Oh, hell, maybe two.

6. And potatoes, or rice. Carbs are the key to comfort. Carbs, fat, and calories are the trifecta of the comfort pity party. Do you have breadcrumbs? 

Should you add vegetables? No one cares. (Who uses lima beans, anyway? Just throw them out, Margot. Your son-in-law lied at Christmas when he said he liked them. Plus, if you still have any, they’re freezer burned by now. Trust me.)

Note: You may overt the salt if you’ve already been crying into the mixing bowl.

7. Combine all ingredients together, mix, and add to a casserole dish that you forgot to grease. (Just use a disposable pan for heaven’s sake, or at least one you can bear to part with, because you shouldn’t expect the grieving person to sort through their multitude of newly acquired second-hand bakeware to find your grandmother’s favorite Corningwear. Just let it go and go back to your life one baking dish lighter than before, Joann. Their child died. They don’t give a crap about your bakeware. Why would you give that dish away in the first place?)

8. Freeze it or bake now, whatever. It doesn’t matter.

Additions:
If you’re feeling up to it throw in some cookies. Chocolate chip. This is not the time to improvise, Sharon. No one wants a repeat of your sweet potato, date, oatmeal, raisin debacle from the last community potluck. Just use actual sugar, for crying out loud.

If something deep inside propels you to make any sort of Jell-O salad, you’re going to need to sit this one out. 

Delivery:
Deliver your trough of gelatinous slop out of obligation. (You may substitute obligation for pride, guilt, sympathy, or the sense of existential dread that tells you nothing matters anyway because a child has died.)

Do not offer banal, distance creating, or offensive platitudes. (Because, no matter what you believe, Karen, right now the grieving mother will most certainly feel there’s no better place for a child to be than in their mother’s arms. And you actually can imagine, Betty. You just don’t want to. Who would?)

Do not make idle chit-chat. Just leave. (Go home to your probably not-dead child, Eileen. You don’t need to talk about how likely it is to rain. A tsunami could hit right now, and they can’t care enough to even look out the window or grab a flotation device. In case you haven’t noticed, they’re already drowning.)

Check the “good person” box on your mental evaluation form and move on.  

Do not follow up (unless it’s after the Casserole Brigade suddenly falls off, which is usually two weeks in, and then only to offer to do something worthwhile, such as mow their lawn, take their other kids to the movies, or clean their house. You don’t need to ask how the food was. Just assume that yes, Diane, your blue-ribbon tuna bake was delicious once again. We all know, potato chips are the secret ingredient. And no, we won’t tell Louise. Of course, it stood out from the four other casseroles they received in the last three days. So unique! Obviously, that’s what’s important here, and the foremost consideration at a time like this.)

They’re grateful. Deep down, they are even if they don’t show it in a way that you’d expect. (Read: strokes your ego, or maintains the high societal standard of mannerly conduct deemed ever important, which begs the questions, at what point, and for what reason could such pretense ever be dropped?)

Just give them some grace and hand over the food.  After all, everyone needs to eat.