Last night I threw a dinner party. Not a Shabbat meal, which I’ve grown happily accustom to attending or occasionally hosting on Friday nights. I picked a random Monday, invited some friends over, asked the friends to bring spicy red wine and caramel ice cream, baked and prepped most of Sunday afternoon, and came home from work to finish cooking, set out plates, and answer the door as my guests arrived.
There is a Hasidic folktale that says rebbes should be burried in a coffin made from the wood of their dining table. The connection is that one’s hospitality at the table will carry them into the World to Come. I think there is a lot of wisdom in this idea – hosting, afterall, is both a vulnerable and enjoyable experience, and I think we reveal much more about our true selves through inviting people into our homes, than we do in most other social contexts.
As a host, I tend to channel my mother’s desire for things to be “just so,” – the food has to be simple but divine, the lighting should be comforting and cozy, the house should be tidy but not austere, a snack should be set out before guests arrive to tide them over until the meal is ready, and no serving plate or glass should ever be allowed to empty.
Once the guests come (especially if they don’t all know each other), I often take on the role of social conductor, introducing people, leading “opening circle” questions around the table, and attempting to bridge potential gaps between guests.
I feel at my most selfless and most organized at dinner parties. I am responsible for my guests’ happiness, and determined to nourish them. It’s exhausting and exhilarating.
Last night’s menu:
- black bean dip (made in my slow cooker) with tortilla chips
- fajitas with sauteed red, yellow, and green peppers, onion, and Morningstar Chick’n strips (which are amazing)
- fresh guaucamole, Green Mountain Gringo salsa, and pepper jack cheese to garnish
- homemade corn bread with scallions
- homemade oatmeal chocolate chip cookies with ice cream
- red wine, summer ales