Potlucks combine the worst of cooking for yourself and the anxiety of Christmas.
You shop, cook, and clean just like every day. All the work is there.
Then you bring your offering to the table and watch to see if it’s the last chosen (just like you were in pick-up baseball games) or if you’re going to bring most of it back home with you. Was it your dish that made everyone suddenly remember their diets and adopt strict portion controls?
Potlucks. There ought to be a law.