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Finding Home on Two Wheels
A Kansas Potluck That Fed More Than Hunger
Somewhere between Topeka and the Colorado border, after days of headwinds and gravel shoulders, I coasted into the town of Meadowbrook, Kansas — more by instinct than GPS. My thighs ached, my gear needed adjusting, and my stomach rumbled with the kind of hunger only a cyclist knows. But what I didn’t expect to find that day wasn’t just a hot meal — it was a warm welcome and a reminder of what it means to belong.
I leaned my weather-beaten bicycle against the rail outside the white clapboard First Presbyterian Church, my saddlebag cradling a glass bowl of berries I’d picked up at a roadside stand that morning. I was invited by a woman I’d met at the gas station the day before — “Third Sunday of the month, bring whatever you’ve got,” she said with a grin. In the backpack beside my tent and spare socks, the berries sat carefully wrapped in towels like precious cargo. My offering felt small next to the whispered legends I’d heard of Midwestern potlucks — casseroles passed down generations, pies worthy of blue ribbons and local bragging rights.
Inside, the basement hummed with the energy of anticipation and baked ham. Long tables dressed in white cloths stretched the length of the room, already groaning under the weight of church-lady magic. Deviled eggs, cheesy potatoes, rolls…
