Why I don't Want You to Bring Anything to My Dinner Party
It's called a food boundary and I'm throwing it up.
“What can I bring to your dinner party?”
“Nothing.”
Stop bringing random shit to a friend’s dinner party when they tell you to not bring anything. It’s awkward. It’s unwarranted. It’s anxiety. If they want something, they’ll be explicit about it. Dinner parties are not a time to be passive-aggressive. Don’t show up with some un-drinkable wine on sale from the grocery store that you picked up on the way to a store that was convenient for you. It’s tacky and similar in fashion to buying random holiday gifts for someone you actually don’t know. Show up, relish in the experience, and be grateful that someone wants to show you their world.
I come back from long-haul trips relishing newfound recipes and dishes, longing to share my experiences with friends and family who might not otherwise get to partake. The Asturian tuna onion, pasta after spending weeks in Italy perfecting the craft with Italian nonnas, and even Muriwo Unedovi (peanut butter collard greens, repeat no bacon fat) from Zweli’s in Durham. Dinner parties are a way to share tangible, edible, meaningful gifts with friends.
Bottom line? Let me drive this ship. I want full control. Maybe I am insane.
I once spent two days cooking an entire holiday meal from scratch; recipes I’d wanted to make and share with others. Friends texted to see what they could bring and I cheerfully thought, “oh wow, they’re as into this as I am” and said something along the lines of a cheese plate, wine, and something to snack on pre-dinner.
I wept internally when a pre-packaged plastic cheese and a vegetable tray appeared—with cubed orange (not really) cheese and dry broccoli florets and carrots, with a square of ranch sauce covered in plastic in the middle.
I’d spent ample time figuring out the placement of things; what will sit next to my spatchcocked hen and what dishes will go into East Fork Pottery bowls vs. plates. How do you politely say, “this black plastic tray clashes with my color plot?” I’d never so I’ll sit with loads of anxiety as I overcrowd my Amaro-hued plates and bowls so the slick plastic tray finds a home, with barren vegetables, glistening at me from across the room. A true eye-sore.
Moments later a crock pot full of barbecue sauce and weenies appears and I internally lose my shit. They’re delicious, I’m not knocking on their glory. I grew up eating little smokies in barbecue sauce but it’s often the lack of respect that murders my soul when I’ve poured my heart into a dinner. “We don’t have time to make something, we’ve got kids, you don’t know what it’s like.” Or, “I ran out of time so grabbed something on the way.” It’s disrespectful to my dinner party and I’m drawing the line.
I now feel the need to place these things on my spread because I’d drop dead before saying, "Thanks for bringing this but it’s killing my vibe." The whole idea is to come into my world and enjoy the experience—and when I say don't bring anything, I mean it. Am I a mega bitch? No. I just care too much. I want you to sit down and enjoy what I bring to the table. It’s my happy place.
“Can I bring anything?”
“Yes, that would be awesome! Please bring three types of cheeses, but make sure you’ve got a hard cheese, a semi-hard cheese, and a soft, spreadable cheese. And please, whatever you do, don’t bring back President’s Brie (spoiler alert: that’s not even real brie) ….or anything from the “not real” cheese aisle.”
“Also please remember to plate your tapas dish on non-stark white but neutral-colored tray or bowl.” I now seem high maintenance and demanding and I’m quite opposite. But when I’ve spatchcocked a hen and you’re showing up with storebought gravy I might flip out. If you’ve already cooked a bird it takes less than 10 minutes to make gravy from scratch. I cringe but allow the jarred gravy to be poured into a misfit bowl. All of a sudden my dinner party turns into a potluck. This can’t be happening. As my friend’s Italian husband would say, “a disaster!”
A potluck screams, “let’s all attempt to get together only we don’t really want to get together, and let’s see what kind of last-minute casserole or random shit we can throw together to save face and pretend as if we care.” Nothing is in harmony, and plus, I want all of the leftovers, you fools. You’re going to show up at my house, leave me with an unkempt kitchen but strip away the goods in the end? Pot lucks are criminal.
I will barely eat if hosting a dinner party as I've taste-tested and cooked all day but when y’all leave, you better believe I’m getting half-naked and raging on some leftovers— a true moment of appreciation of the art of a dinner party.
As for wine, forget about it (unless you have like-minded friends who are in the industry or just love wine). You can tell people all day long what wine you want but it goes back to lack of care. “I didn’t have time to go by the wine shop you said so I grabbed this instead.” And now I’m trying to breathe deeply while setting Kim Crawford Sauvignon Blanc beside my very affordable (probably more affordable than Kim Crawford) Italian and Spanish delights—without seeming like a total bitch, telling everyone, “whatever you do, don’t drink that…it’ll blow your palate out.”
I once almost burned my cabin down in Jackson Hole cooking fried chicken for roughly 50 people, three pieces at a time, in a Dutch oven, to bring my mountain friends a slice of my Southern livelihood for a birthday dinner party. Was I stressed out? Of course. But did I need anyone’s help? Yes…but no. The cooking of fried chicken was a meditational art for me and I enjoyed every chaotic second, especially in the end when everyone’s palates were pleased.
The takeaway? A dinner party, to me, is a sacred, meditational space where I envision friends and family showing up and indulging in my world, my space, for a few hours. However, society has developed a stigma of never showing up empty-handed—or the need to buy a gift for someone just because it’s a holiday. I get that but know that the often unthoughtful store-bought potato salad is going send me on a deep spiral. The more tasks assigned outside of my wheelhouse the more likely it’ll turn into a potluck. And if I wanted a potluck I’d simply call it a potluck, but I wouldn’t, so……
No one really wants to bring anything to your dinner party—and I’m telling you straight up, you don’t want anyone to bring anything either. I beg you, don’t overstep my dinner party boundary! And I promise I’ll show up to your dinner party and enjoy every second of it.
And if you can’t find it in your giving heart to respect a dinner party boundary, these delights will never go out of style:
Delicious butter (Le Beurre Bordier, Banner Butter).
A loaf of bread from a local bakery.
Flowers (not the neon-dyed ones, though).
Ice (this is the real test to see if you do actually care to bring anything to a dinner party because ice is the most hated party chore ever).
Volunteer for dish duty.
If you still feel the need to contribute, ask if you can donate some bucks towards wine via Venmo.
CURRENTLY BITCHEN ABOUT:
A MEMORY: There’s one exception to my dinner party rule: My Jackson Hole and Sun Valley friends and I do collaborative dinner parties but each with assigned tasks, in our own respective fields. A crucial bullet is that all must understand the assignment and the guests are just ourselves.
The last dinner took place in the wild at Vanessa’s "love shack” in Jackson Hole, where she whipped up dreamy florals and a tablescape (Fleur de V)— plus brilliant cocktails + wine selection from Jessa (Amrita Beverages), myself on the grill (+ a perfect tomato pie although I was so hungover I used store bought crust and that’s OK), and the wildly talented Lindley Rust on photos (we use her every single time).
These snaps in this piece take me right back to that moment in time. Nothing beats a disheveled table after a feast under the full moon with laughter and joint (I mean…joy).
-Jenn
Every. Word.
Awesome read