This Is Why You're Fit

Raw Potluck: A Gift for the Spirit

When most folks think of raw potluck, if they ever deign to do so, alfalfa sprouts and baby carrots usually come to mind. Derived from the Chinook Indian term potlatch, which means “gift,” the early tribal gatherings commemorated marriages, births, namings or the designation of heirs. Most of all, the ceremonies were held to redistribute wealth in the village.

I was recently invited to my first uncooked potluck. As a vegan who has attended her share of eat-and-greets, our offerings are usually nibbled on or passed over altogether in favor of “heartier” fare. But at this fête, raw food ruled! I was excited about the idea of mingling with my peeps — vegans and non-vegans alike who were transitioning into a lifestyle consisting largely of living cuisine.

When I arrived at the beautiful home of our gracious hostess Maeve, I encountered a smorgasbord of colors and textures that would put Hometown Buffet to shame: tahini and shoyu rubbed kale chips, beet salad with pine nuts, pad thai, horchata made with almond milk, cayenne and lemon spiced jicama cubes, marinated button mushrooms with brazil nut parmesan, Caesar salad with cashew dressing, Tom Ka Gai soup, rose geranium ice cream, kiwi pie, plus a host of other unheated masterpieces.

It’s not that I wasn’t hip to the variety and richness of raw vegan creations. But more than my delight in viewing the mountain of food before me was a sense of community and kinship that I rarely experience in L.A. This was my tribe. A safe haven for owners of Vitamix blenders, nut milk bags, mandolins and dehydrators. A gathering of connoisseurs who can tell you the organic shops that sell dulse and kelp noodles or the ethnic markets where you can buy young Thai coconuts in bulk. We all spoke the same language, one that bordered on the sacred.

It seems anticlimactic to note that the food was delicious, but it was. I had no shame in piling my plate high with third and fourth helpings. Had I been sitting in a booth after downing multiple servings of Standard American Diet fare at a garden-variety buffet, I would have been discreetly unbuttoning my pants to let my swollen belly breathe, or looking for the nearest bed to catch some ZZZs. But even after two hours of grazing on raw delicacies, I wasn’t exhausted, was in fact, strolling through Maeve’s house, nibbling on chocolate coconut balls and chatting with my fellow foodies. Most of us had completed the 40 Days Raw series offered by Cru. Two of the restaurant's chefs, Rachel Carr and Kristan Andrews, teacher of the classes, were in the house to witness the culmination of their culinary tutelage.

As the mango ice cream melted in a bowl on the kitchen island, and the raw revelers retrieved purses and jackets, I decided it was time to reluctantly bid my hostess adieu. In the tradition of the original potlatch, the evening’s gathering was akin to a redistribution of wealth, a ceremony celebrating the epicurean contributions of the tribe. The potluck was a success, “a gift” for everyone’s senses and spirit.