It all started with a folding table and a dream. I decided to host a potluck in our garage—because nothing says “community” like a plastic table next to a weed whacker and a half-deflated beach ball.  But in our small suburban town, where the biggest excitement last week was the garbage truck backing into a mailbox, this potluck had the potential to become the social event of the season. First, I printed some invitations (read: scribbled notes on sticky pads) and walked door-to-door like a middle-aged Paul Revere shouting, “Bring a dish and a chair!” People were intrigued. A few asked if this was one of those pyramid food schemes. Others wanted to know if there would be Jell-O salad. (Of course. What kind of operation do you think I'm running?) The day arrived. I swept the garage, shoved the lawn mower behind an old quilt, and strung up some Christmas lights I forgot to take down in 2019. Our suburban garage was transformed into a cozy, slightly flammable banquet hall. Neigh...