The harrowing case of the Hostess with the Mostest...Anxiety

Dear Tamar:

I'm ambivalent about hosting. On the one hand, I love a good dinner party and I love cooking for people, and I really *want* to be a good host. On the other, I'm not, like, an amazing cook, and I also get stressed about the demands of hosting. I find that I can't actually enjoy myself because I'm thinking about everyone's needs (and then I'm resentful of the fact that I'm thinking about everyone's needs). Should I become better at hosting? Can I get better at hosting? Or is my temperament that of a dinner party attendee, not a dinner party host, and I should just accept myself for who I am?

-The Hostess with the Mostest…Anxiety

Dear Hostess:

Your ambivalence reveals a truth. We all feel shoulds. They’re worth noticing–not always to avoid, but at least to ask: Why should I? I’m so glad you’re asking , and before I get into a detailed answer, I want to assure you that there’s fertile ground between apparent binaries like host and guest, should and am. 

My father was a majestic host. As a Middle-Eastern man of a certain era, he could not (or would not) do anything in the kitchen, including boil water or pour himself juice. But I learned to host from him, which informs my certainty that hosting and cooking are separate, and can remain separate. Or they can bend toward each other and then withdraw, whenever or however you like—and that there are better ways to host than “dinner parties”–awful chimeras, about which I’ll say more below.

According to my (flawed) memory, one could barely arrive at the train station in my town without being invited to our house. Once inside, there was no way around being offered Israeli pickles, or olives, or pistachios, and tea. Such gatherings sometimes evolved into meals, but often, they didn’t. My memory hears not the clatter of plates being laid and pots simmering, but pistachio shells being cracked in teeth and dropped into a waiting bowl. I don’t ignore that this meant my mother finding a bowl and putting on the kettle. I wish my father had done it himself.

For any planned dinner with guests, my father would change into a pair of ridiculous pants–patchwork, rainbow, a bit too tight–so that no arrival would feel underdressed, and everyone would have something to laugh at: him. Once some food had been offered, my father sat. He didn’t perch or hurry or worry—made easier by my mother perching and hurrying, refilling olive bowls. But my father sat, and looked into people’s eyes, and frankly, held their hands as they talked long enough that they probably would have been comfortable heading to the kitchen to refill their own olive bowls if anyone had invited my mother to sit down.

You can see by now what I’m getting at. Put the tea kettle on yourself, and find your own bowl for pistachio shells. But note from my father’s example how much of good hosting is inviting, offering, sitting, and trusting. Certainly, he thought about people’s needs in a general sense—but only generally, and his acknowledgement of them was in his insistence that they wanted a snack, and understanding that they wanted, above all else, to feel comfortable, to feel at home.

Dinner parties are far down the hosting road. Even their name is stressful–not just dinner, and not just a party, but a demon combination of two things, in neither of which you’re practiced enough to not worry. And it takes practice. Don’t do “dinner parties.” Do something else, nameless and easy and in good spirits. (Don’t get me started on Weddings–where regular humans who are anxious to host any sort of gathering have been convinced to throw a great party for HUNDREDS of people while simultaneously VOWING ETERNAL LOVE AND LOYALTY.)

You say you love cooking for people. If you want to cook, do. Make something simple and abundant so you don’t crack either of the two pillars of hosting—offering, and making people feel at home. Cook something ahead–it can be minestrone or chili or a baked pasta or a pilaf. Or, if you want to serve something festive without fuss, buy several loaves of bread, wrap them in foil to warm them, and serve them alongside one bowl of purchased ricotta and another of warmed tomato sauce. Or serve grilled cheese–lots of it, making a bunch ahead and keeping them in a warm oven. It can be American cheese or Brie, depending on what you have or like. Or serve pickles, olives, and pistachios, and also pita and hummus and cheese and grape leaves—and make it plenty. Give a guest the can opener if your arm gets tired. Or gather friends and order pizza, laying out extra toppings to personalize it, like a bowl of arugula dressed with lemon and parmesan, filets of anchovy, crumbled spicy sausage, pickled chilies…

Here are a few other tips for whenever you gather people at a table, none of which must be followed, but any of which may make the act of hosting more like what it is meant for: encouraging humans to be human together.

-Have a water pitcher that is big enough that it doesn’t always need refilling, or whenever people are gathering, fill two water pitchers. 

-Have a good amount of whatever beverage you like. Don’t worry about it being of the highest quality. Too much is better than too little.

-Have a lot of sturdy glasses that can be used for water and wine and whatever else. Put two at each place and a big stack somewhere else for when everyone loses their first two.

-If you like using paper or compostable plates, use them. If you like using your grandparents’ porcelain, use that. I use a set of enameled tin plates and bowls for everything, no matter the occasion. This means indoor is the same as outdoor. Casual is the same as fancy. Maybe it’s my version of my father’s ugly pants—a tin plate keeps things from feeling intimidating.

-If you like using paper towels, use them without apologizing. If you don’t, buy a case of bar towels at a restaurant supply store and use them for everything, from kitchen towel to napkin.

-Speaking of not apologizing: apologize for nothing. Your only jobs are to offer something to eat and to create a welcoming space. Don’t impose your own expectations of yourself on that space. No one cares.

-The two most festive things are abundance and calm. If it is olives and pickles, have a lot. If it’s potato chips, fill your biggest bowl. You can serve apples. Or it can be beer and nuts. Just let there be an abundance. As for calm…if anything I’ve written will make it harder for you, don’t do it. And if you are not at a moment where you want to gather people, don’t. Have faith that someday, you will be. Because, Dear cook, the world is not divided into hosts and guests. Any more than it is divided into any two types. Everyone is every type, at some point, if we live long enough. When the day arrives that you want to gather people, dust off this primer, and let me know if it takes the edge off.