Christmas is my favorite holiday.
But if I'm being specific, it's not really Christmas Day that I love most. It's everything surrounding it. The decorating. The smell of evergreen and pine from a fresh tree. Baking things from scratch. Planning what we'll eat, what we'll drink and what we'll do when everyone gets together.
In our family, Christmas Eve has become our night. Years ago, we started celebrating then because our children had other parents and families to spend time with on Christmas Day. Instead of competing for pieces of the holiday, we created something of our own and it became a tradition.
My husband handles most of the savory food. I'm the baker. And I always plan some kind of activity. One year, we did the Hot Ones challenge with increasingly ridiculous hot sauces and Chick-fil-A nuggets. We've had a bucket of dad jokes and tried to make each other laugh. We've done karaoke where everyone had to sing a song that reminded them of someone else in the family. It usually ends exactly as you'd imagine, with a lot of loud, crying laughter.
Those are some of my favorite memories. And I've realized something about them. I remember what I cooked. I remember how I decorated. But what I remember most is how it felt to have everyone there.
It was never really about the table
Some of the best conversations of my life have happened around a table.
Although, in our house, I should probably say around the kitchen island. We have a dining table. We just don't seem to gather there. Somewhere along the way, our large kitchen island became the place everyone naturally gravitates toward. We didn't plan it. Nobody announced that this would be our gathering place. It's simply where people seemed most comfortable, so we embraced it.
Someone is usually sitting on a stool. Someone else is standing on the other side. My husband may be cooking. I may be making drinks. Eventually food appears, and somehow everyone ends up there. And I love that we didn't manufacture it. The space told us how people wanted to use it, and we listened. Maybe that's why I use “the table” more as an idea than a piece of furniture.
I've experienced that same kind of connection at kitchen islands, over coffee, during business dinners, with a cocktail or mocktail in someone's hand, and sometimes around an actual table long after everyone has finished eating. There's something about sharing food that seems to invite us to stay a little longer. To talk. To laugh. To tell the story we weren't planning to tell.
The table gives us a reason to gather, but the table isn't really the point.
What matters is what happens because we gathered. That's what I love about hospitality. Not creating something impressive. Creating the conditions for people to connect.
Hospitality is how I love people
I am a details person.
If I'm making margaritas, there's a very good chance I'm squeezing the juice myself. If there are jalapeños involved, I'm chopping them, removing the seeds and figuring out exactly how much heat I want. If I'm baking something, I'm probably making it from scratch. My family has now become entirely too accustomed to this and is unimpressed by store-bought baked goods. I've created my own problem. But I love it.
There is something deeply satisfying to me about considering someone's experience before they ever arrive.
What would they enjoy?
What would make them comfortable?
What might surprise them?
What could make this moment feel special?
For me, hospitality is an act of love. It says, I thought about you before you got here. And I don't think that requires expensive ingredients, perfect dishes or an elaborate tablescape. Some of the simplest things can feel extraordinary when someone has considered how you will experience them.
But the host should get to be at the party, too
This is the part I'm still learning.
For years, I could throw a beautiful gathering and barely experience it myself. I'd be making the next drink while everyone else was laughing. Cleaning something while everyone else was talking. Checking the food. Refreshing the ice. Making sure everybody had what they needed. I loved watching people enjoy what I'd created. But sometimes I was so busy creating the experience that I forgot to participate in it.
I'm learning there is another way.
I can batch the drinks.
I can make the first round and let someone else handle the next one.
I can accept help.
I can leave a dish in the sink.
I can sit down.
Because hospitality shouldn't require the host to disappear. The person creating the community deserves to belong to it, too. That's a lesson I'm carrying with me, not just into how I host, but into how I think about creating experiences. The details matter. But the details aren't the experience. They're simply there to support it.
Connection doesn't have to be elaborate
I'm writing this after spending a few days in the mountains of North Carolina with my sister and cousin.
There was no elaborate itinerary. We bought groceries and snacks. We sat by the pool reading our own books. We dealt with more bugs than any of us would have preferred. And during the three-and-a-half-hour drive from Atlanta, we played songs from different stages of our lives and sang like we'd somehow been transported back to childhood.
We barely took pictures. Not because there wasn’t anything worth remembering. We were too busy being there. And maybe that's what I've been trying to create around all those tables, and around our kitchen island for all these years.
Not the perfect meal.
Not the perfect party.
Not the perfect picture.
A reason to be here.
Together.
“Come with me. I think you’ll love it.”
One of my favorite things about the people closest to me is that they'll usually let me take them somewhere they wouldn't necessarily choose for themselves.
Try this. Taste this. Come here. Trust me.
Over time, I think hospitality creates that kind of trust.
It says: I've thought about you. I know you. Come with me. I think there's something here you'll love.
Sometimes that leads to an incredible restaurant or a beautiful place. Sometimes it leads to standing around your own kitchen island eating something simple and laughing until somebody cries. Both count. Because when I think about the experiences that have stayed with me, they're rarely the ones where everything was perfect. They're the ones where I felt connected. Where somebody stayed longer than they planned. Where the conversation got deeper. Where we laughed loudly. Where phones disappeared. Where nobody was particularly concerned about capturing the moment because we were actually inside of it.
Maybe the best moments happen “around a table” because we all need somewhere to gather. In our house, that happens to be the kitchen island. Where it happens matters far less than what we create once we're there.
A Small Invitation
Think of someone you haven't spent enough time with lately. Invite them to share something simple. A cup of coffee. A meal. A walk. An hour on your porch.
Don't worry about making it impressive. Don't wait until your house is perfect or your schedule opens up. Just make room for each other.
Sometimes that's all an experience needs to become a memory.
