sunday dinner

when gathering is the point

Yesterday I hosted the first event of a new series (and a new tradition): Sunday Dinner. Where our friends are invited into our apartment once a month to a calm, casual, potluck dinner. Not because it’s someone’s birthday or a holiday, but simply because it’s Sunday. The goal isn’t to just “catch up” over coffee or a meal, to entertain or put on airs. But rather to simply spend genuine, quality time together.

It wasn’t perfectly organized or a fully curated menu like I’ve done in the past. We didn’t have the table (which is really two tables set next to each other) covered with butcher’s paper or a tablecloth, already arranged with place settings and name cards, well before folks arrived. We didn’t have all matching plates or even enough clean knives. We ran out of forks and had to use plastic ones for dessert. We were using water glasses for wine and kitchen tweezers for serving. I was still cooking when people were showing up, sitting around the kitchen table that was full of carrots and kale and lemons before I asked them to move to the living room so I could have some space. We had to move stools and put together the tables. To unload the dishwasher, with friends putting away our glasses and plates as directed, before we could clean up. Our cats hopped onto the couch while we were sharing appetizers and jumped onto the table while we were eating dessert. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t tidy. It wasn’t arranged and cultivated. But it was wholesome and honest and fun and connected.

We drank fridge-brewed iced tea and wine and La Croix. We munched on caviar and pickles and dip with freshly toasted sourdough. We ate kale and chicken and mac and cheese. We indulged in homemade s’mores and a cherry tart. Everything was delicious and intentional and showed love and care. We were surrounded by and participating in community, where the conversation lulled and was brought back up by a question, a story, a moment that was begging to be shared.

We laughed and gasped and guffawed the whole night. We talked about mushrooms and theatre and the state of the world. We talked about politics and a friend’s recent break up. We gave updates on our jobs, our interests, our hobbies. We shared about recent excursions, including writing workshops, sound baths at the botanical gardens, and concerts. We talked about moving apartments and getting cats. About recipes and cookbook authors and favorite flavor profiles. We discussed our addiction to our phones and social media, how tv shows have been dumbed down to account for us all using multiple screens at once. We were all present and engaged, in community.

I yearn for the days I had as a kid where I would just hang out with my friends. Where we’d ask day-of to visit each other’s houses, to eat dinner, and then go home when it got dark. It was easy, without having to be scheduled or directed. It was just what happened, what could be expected.

I also think back to my grandparents’ home, where their friends would pop over without notice. Where they knew my grandparents would welcome them if they were home and where they’d leave a note if not. Where bringing some food to share or a 6 pack of beer was enough admission to spend the night on the deck, playing card games and chatting until the mosquitos forced us inside. I feel that we’ve lost that magic. The simplicity in spending time together, in a casual, sustained gathering where all are welcome and the only expectation is to bring something to share and to share yourself. Where there aren’t time limits or stress created by subway delays and the panic of running late. Where you only get a few moments before being interrupted by a table next to you or a waiter trying to turn the table faster to be able to pay rent. We’ve lost the art of simply hanging out. And it’s time to bring it back.

It is a joy and a gift and an honor to surround ourselves with people who care for us, who love us, who can sustain us. Who we can reach out to when we need support or are lonely. Who can bring us soup when we’re sick (or at least get it delivered because they know our address). Who can follow up and ask how we’re doing. Who we can share and be vulnerable with. And who we can be honest with. The true, messy, unorganized, honesty that is so shunned in our society, that is hidden from social media and the news. That is made to feel mythic by our standards when really, it’s what will save us.

It feels like this is the piece of my life that I’ve been missing: to have people gathered in my home without a big to do. Where we can connect honestly. Because being honest with one another is all we have in this world. To trust, to love, to come together. And what better way to do that than over shared food that has been prepared with those gathered in mind, passed around the table?

Maybe I’ll see you at the next Sunday Dinner.