The old hall where our town meeting dinners were held has been sold, which is a good thing; besides, there hasn’t been a town meeting dinner served there since the town changed its meeting day from the first Monday in March to mid-June. The move had something to do with education funding for local school budgets, but what resulted was a break in tradition … and the end of those marvelous meals.

Nobody called it lunch; it was town meeting dinner, complete with homemade rolls, homemade pickles and enough macaroni dishes to satisfy any appetite. Plus, there were cream pies, fruit pies, graham cracker pies, lemon squares and every cake imaginable, from carrot to chocolate.

Not to mention the varieties of Jell-O salads, which prompted a debate each year between a friend and me about what to call these jiggly gelatin side dishes. He called them “molded salads;” I preferred “congealed.” Neither, when you think about it, sounds the slightest bit appealing.

This same friend referred to “potted plants,” where I used “pot plants,” which was probably the wiser term given the drug culture growing around these coastal parts faster than Miracle-Gro could produce giant marijuana plants among the marigolds in the garden. And this was years ago when most of us didn’t know “weed” from weed and thought marijuana was two words.

We also argued – this friend and I – if dinner meant lunch or the evening meal, which often ends up being called supper, and which confuses folks when they’re invited to dinner, not knowing whether to come at noon for fried chicken or 6 p.m. for leg of lamb.

But everybody knew when town meeting dinner was being served up, and they took their seats around the long tables in the Masonic Hall and began passing bowls and platters and pitchers.

It had been an early morning for the ladies who provided the dinner, cooking hams or beans they started the night before, or setting the rolls to rise or chopping cabbage for slaw. Then came the caravan of cars, lining up in front of the hall so the women could carry in covered dishes with their names taped underneath.

Neighbors who had been shouting at each other during the morning session of town meeting sat down together to chew on something other than warrant articles, and by the time the coffee was served – overly strong so that residents would stay awake for the afternoon session – tempers had all but faded. The only steam was coming off kettles in the kitchen.

After feasting on hamburger pie, barbecued frankfurters or bread pudding, townspeople would file back into the chilly town hall in a more genial mood to complete the business of the annual meeting. Those who had been at odds on how much money to raise for civil defense or when to close the clam flats were more apt to agree by midafternoon when moods had mellowed.

This March, I particularly miss those town meeting dinners and my friend’s molded salads.