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Welcome back to The Daily’s Sunday culture edition.

Thanksgiving means sharing food with friends and loved ones, which also means that many potluck guests will spend the next few days scouring the web for easy and last-minute recipes. To help inspire readers looking for suggestions, The Atlantic’s writers and editors answer the question: What’s your go-to dish to bring to a potluck?

There is a calculus to potlucks. The dish you bring must be not only tasty but also impressive, affordable, transportable, easy to serve, and not overly time-consuming—not to mention thematically appropriate. Years of doing the math led me to a simple solution: No matter the party, I bring meatballs. Roll them, bake them, and serve with toothpicks—and don’t forget the dips.

The great thing about them is that they are endlessly adaptable. A fancier gathering might call for veal-and-ricotta balls with a spiced tomato sauce; kids might prefer chicken balls with ketchup. And, of course, they can be made vegetarian.

At a previous job, I was asked to contribute to a cookie-themed potluck. Anxiety struck; I’m a deeply mediocre baker. But the math saved me once again. As I set down a plate of beef-and-pork balls next to trays of whoopie pies and chocolate-chip biscotti, my bemused colleagues waited for an explanation. I pulled out a label: “Meat truffles.” By the end of the meal, not a single one was left.

— Yasmin Tayag, staff writer

***

A staple of my family’s Thanksgiving dinners and summer barbecues is a painstaking mid-century masterpiece we call “rainbow Jell-O”: layers of red, orange, yellow, and green gelatin, partitioned by sweetened condensed milk and cut into bite-size cubes. Making the Jell-O is an all-day affair; each level needs to set in the fridge before the next can be built on top (we skip blue, indigo, and violet as a practical matter).

The recipe, scrawled by my grandmother on a now-yellowed piece of paper, comes from the Japanese American side of my family, which traces its roots through Hawaii, where rainbow Jell-O is sold in convenience stores. The origins of the Jell-O are unclear, but if I had to guess, it might be born of the islands’ unique culinary tradition of drawing magic from shelf-stable foods and wartime rations—in the spirit of Spam musubi.

Is making the Jell-O worth clearing an afternoon and a shelf in your fridge? That perhaps depends on your tolerance for wobbly foods. When one of my college roommates was passed the plate of Jell-O squares on his first Thanksgiving visit, he watched them quake from side to side and politely declined.

— Andrew Aoyama, deputy managing editor

***

I’m a self-conscious cook, even in private; I prefer to stick with minimal ingredients for my meals instead of experimenting with my seasonings and, inevitably, my sensitive stomach. My palate is pretty limited, probably as a result of my boring diet—so I also have no idea if anything I eat tastes good to the average person.

That’s why, when I’m invited to a potluck, I designate myself the Prepacked-Snacks Person. But I make it fun by leveraging my experience as an Oreo connoisseur: My potluck contribution is whatever wacky, seasonally appropriate Oreo flavor is on the market right now. It’s both something you know everyone is somewhat familiar with and more exciting than showing up with the basic snacks you get at the bodega. Plus, I would rather have my friends taste and judge my Pumpkin Spice or Coca-Cola Oreos than watch them pretend to like my homemade chili.

— Allegra Frank, senior editor

***

I’m pretty sure I first made caramel rolls for my mom’s birthday when I was in high school, but I started sharing them at a Friendsgiving potluck in college. They are basically cinnamon rolls, but instead of topping the buns with frosting, you drown them in a caramel sauce, creating a dish that is soft, sticky, and supremely sweet. Although you can use an online recipe for the bread portion, I use my grandmother’s recipe for the caramel, which lives on a bright-blue note card in a wooden box at my parents’ house, along with all of the other cooking instructions we inherited after she passed away. I’ve heard that caramel is notoriously hard to make, but I’ve never had an issue with hers, which includes two whopping tablespoons of white corn syrup. Her side of the family—my mom’s side—comes from North Dakota, so I always feel like I’m sharing a dish that’s a little folksy: simple and delicious. Caramel rolls don’t just work as a hefty addition to potlucks and as a dessert for any occasion; the leftovers can be breakfast too!

— Elise Hannum, assistant editor

***

I am a man of vanity who likes to appear impressive in mixed company; I am also a man of convenience who likes to expend as little energy as possible, if possible. In a potluck scenario, the latter instinct takes over—largely because there’s just less time and attention to spend on any one dish.

Hence my love of making pulled pork, which maxes out several factors: cheapness of ingredients, ease of preparation, quantity of yielded food, wow factor with friends. The recipe I use is perhaps not the best recipe; it is, however, one of the first recipes I found when I Googled best pulled-pork recipe a few years ago. You can really blow people’s minds by bringing along the appropriate accoutrement—pickles, barbecue sauce, buns—but even by itself, the meat goes with anything.

I first made pulled pork for a Super Bowl party, when I had a sneaking suspicion—informed by my expansive curiosity about flavor combinations, and my history of alcohol consumption—that it would pair well with chips and beer. I will be honest: Despite the ease of “slather in spices and hit the slow-cooker button,” I somehow kind of screwed it up—the cut of meat was too large for the lid to fully cover, and I didn’t let it cook for long enough. But even made poorly, pulled pork is a novel delight—everyone loved it, even as I was mildly ashamed of this inaugural effort. Made well, you’ll be the talk of the party.

— Jeremy Gordon, senior editor

***

This season of life doesn’t seem to afford much time for hobbies, but I do love baking, either solo or with the “help” of my 6-year-old daughter (she is an expert sugar sprinkler). My favorite—and most consistently delicious—thing to bake is challah. I got the recipe, adaptations, and all relevant advice from my sister; it has completely ruined all those dry store-bought versions for any purpose but making French toast.

I learned the art of baking challah during the pandemic, when everyone else was busy with their sourdough starters. Back then, my husband, my daughter, and I had no choice but to eat it all ourselves—fortunately, this recipe freezes well. That was by far not the worst part of COVID, but I prefer to share challah; Jewish food is always best enjoyed in the company of others. I never mastered the traditional braiding of the dough, so I mostly shape it into large, fluffy buns—all the better for tearing apart with your hands. Try topping the challah with everything-bagel seasoning, za’atar, or something more creative. Then bring it to a communal Shabbat or a holiday meal, and enjoy watching your loved ones go back for just one more hunk of soft, warm bread, and then another, and another.

— Janice Wolly, copy chief

Here are three Sunday reads from The Atlantic:

• The business-school scandal that just keeps getting bigger
• Three ways to become a deeper thinker
• The Atlantic gift guide

The Week Ahead

1. Moana 2, an animated sequel about a village chief’s wayfinding daughter who must travel into the dangerous waters of Oceania (in theaters Wednesday)
2. The Agency, a thriller series starring Michael Fassbender as a CIA agent who is ordered to leave his undercover life (premieres Friday on Paramount+ with Showtime)
3. This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, a collection of short stories by Naomi Wood about motherhood, femininity, and modern love (out Tuesday)

Essay

Your Armpits Are Trying to Tell You Something

By Yasmin Tayag

The last time I sweated through my shirt, I vowed that it would never happen again. Sweat shame had dogged me for too many years. No longer would armpit puddles dictate the color of my blouse. Never again would I twist underneath a hand dryer to dry my damp underarms. It was time to try clinical-strength antiperspirant.

Read the full article.

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