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For churchgoing families in the 1940s and ’50s, few events could rival the beloved church supper. These gatherings fed crowds, raised money and sometimes produced stories that lasted for generations.

Church suppers generally came in two forms: potlucks and meals built around a single entrée. At North Methodist Church in Vincennes, Indiana, the latter required serious preparation. Surviving recipes include chili for 75 people and chicken and noodles for 150.

Work began in the church basement kitchen early in the morning. An army of women peeled onions, sliced carrots, made noodles and browned hamburger in pots nearly as wide as hubcaps.

As a child, I once saw my mother’s friend Mrs. Martin crying and became worried. The women laughed and explained that she had been chopping onions—my introduction to what onions can do to tear ducts.

While the adults cooked, my friend Linda and I had much of the church to explore. Because she lived across town, these gatherings offered a rare chance for us to play together. We hid from a younger pest named Stevie, slipped behind the stage curtains, crawled beneath tables, studied photographs of former ministers and visited the church secretary.

One place remained off-limits: the sanctuary. Even at 6 years old, we understood that it deserved respect.

As dinner approached, other volunteers set up a ticket table. The suppers were major church fundraisers, and a meal cost $2.50—a sum that sounded enormous to me.

Some gatherings became tied to much larger events. My mother recalled attending a supper on Dec. 7, 1941, when news spread that Japan had bombed Pearl Harbor. Many people in landlocked Indiana reportedly asked where Pearl Harbor was. Some hurried home to hear more on the radio, while others remained long enough to finish eating.

Another supper produced a more personal crisis: the night my mother’s diamond disappeared.

After working in the kitchen all day, she noticed near suppertime that the diamond was missing from her engagement ring. She searched her apron, her dress and everything around her before friends joined the hunt.

They swept the kitchen, searched the trash, looked beneath equipment and even rolled out the massive refrigerator. During dinner, an announcement asked guests to chew their chicken and noodles carefully in case the stone had fallen into the food.

The diamond never surfaced. It may have gone down the drain—or been swallowed by an unsuspecting diner.

Years later, my father gave my mother a replacement as a Christmas present. Her relief did not last: She learned that her famously frugal husband had bought her a zircon instead of a diamond. It was not a high point in their marriage, but it became one more unforgettable story from the era of the church supper.