The Blackout Potluck

A thunderstorm knocked out power on our whole street one July evening. By seven o'clock, everyone was standing on their porches, staring at their dark houses and their slowly warming freezers.

Then Mrs. Patel from the corner shouted, "Well, I'm not letting this ice cream go to waste!" and set up a card table on the sidewalk. Within twenty minutes there were six tables. People brought whatever needed eating: half a lasagna, cold fried chicken, a watermelon, four pints of melting mint chip.

Someone dragged out a battery radio. Kids caught fireflies in jars. A man I'd only ever seen mowing his lawn turned out to play the harmonica, and he was good.

The power came back around eleven. Nobody went inside for another hour. We still call it "the blackout potluck," and every summer someone jokingly asks when the next storm is coming.