I really love a night in, ordering a takeaway, assembling a meal for one, sinking into the my quiet rituals of comfort. Those routines have become more defined, more relied upon, more enjoyed with each passing year. And yet, one of my great ambitions in life is to build a home centred entirely around the act of gathering.

I picture a wooden farmhouse table. Solid, worn, generous in width and length. Layered with objects: ceramics, vases, plates collected over time and travels. Each piece holding a story. I hope to have draws full of seasonal cotton napkins and placemats, ready for any season or occasion. So many nik-nacks that I can pull themed dinner party out the bag with a moments notice.

Growing up, I watched my Mother host countless dinners and birthdays, christmases and occasions. Each one delicious, but laced with stress. Hosting, for her, felt like an obligation rather than a joy.

And I understand why. Cooking for more than a family of people is no small feat.

But I loved the abundance of people, the loud chatter, decorated tables, flowing drinks, watching raw materials and company turn into something meaningful, and have since looked forward to ushering people inside my warm home, passing plates around and pouring drinks over each others arms.

To truly love hosting, I think, you have to love all of it. Not just the final moment when everyone sits down, but the preparation, too.

The chopping of vegetables.
The marinating the night before.
The satisfaction of finding more space in the fridge to slot your preparations into.
The rediscovery of something forgotten at the back of the pantry that you will finally pop the seal and use.

You have to enjoy the dance you do around the kitchen in a choreography of organisation. Thinking about how all this time and care and love into feeding people will undoubtedly make for a magical experience.

And then comes the morning of.

The early wake up with a flicker of adrenaline. Moving slowly with your final moments of calm, leaving plenty of time to not rush through your morning routine before the day turns toward the kitchen. The oven warms the house. The table begins to take shape. The day gets richer. Attention shifts from cooking to atmosphere: the light, the colours, the materials, the feeling you’re creating for the people about to walk through the door.

It’s easy to ask: why go to all this effort for something as ordinary as dinner?

But that’s precisely the point.

Making the ordinary an occasion.

As life becomes busier, our time increasingly fragmented and sold back to us in the form of exhaustion, something has slipped away: the art of intentional hosting. And it’s not entirely our fault. We are living in one of the most materially abundant times in history, yet in many ways, we feel less fulfilled. The richness of life has been replaced with convenience.

And so, naturally, we gravitate toward ease.

We meet at pubs.
We gather half-attentively in each other’s homes.
We default to restaurants, outsourcing both effort and intimacy.

It’s still nice, but it feels diluted.

It might not be our fault that life has turned us out this way, but it is our responsibility to decide to do something different about it, in whatever small way we might be able to afford.

Can you afford your time just one weekend to create a different kind of rest and connection?

I can hear it now: “I'‘m not spending my only 2 days off as a slave to the kitchen.”

If that’s you, I think that’s the problem. And maybe like my mum, you’re not made to host, but you may have a friend who is ready to thrive with the task and help you.

The execution is more daunting than the actual event, but, we need to get out our own heads because I think this might be a bit of that je ne sais quoi we’re looking for.

The Elements We’ve Forgotten

Intentionality
Hosting as a deliberate act of care, not just feeding people, but bringing them together.

Atmosphere & Detail
Tables laid with thought. Music chosen with purpose. Spaces that feel considered.

Themed Experience
Not just dinner, but a mood. Something memorable.

Conversation & Connection
A space where people are truly present with each other, in real conversation.

This Easter, my friend Jasmine decided to host a Sunday lunch.

I arrived the day before to help her prepare. She was, understandably, slightly overwhelmed by the responsibility she had willingly taken on. But between us (two people who like to think we’re very “on it”), we committed to doing it properly.

We spent the whole Saturday afternoon chopping, slicing, stuffing, marinating, par-boiling, seasoning and wrapping as many things and stuffing them into the fridge as possible before retreating to a near by Malaysian restaurant for our own dinner and cheers to celebrate our efforts.

My one tip for hosting a dinner party is, don’t cook the night before.

This is the time where you should go out or order a takeaway to the sofa. You’ve prepped, and cleaned, prepped and cleaned, prepped and cleaned. You can give it rest now.

The following morning we woke early, a run to Hampstead Heath and back, coffee, showers, skincare and some makeup on my still winter pale face.

We weren’t stressed. We were ready. Bring it on.

We turned to the kitchen. Brewed another coffee, and got, to, work.

The preparation we took the initiative the day before was greatly appreciated. Everything was timed and scheduled down to a T. We found some rogue vodka and gin in her freezer and decided to make a spritz out of other miscellaneous soda waters and fruits in her fridge. Come 1pm, we poured ourselves a large glass of our homemade concoction and cheers to our efforts.

Now, the table.

When Jas made this group chat I volunteered to be on decoration duty. I don’t know if she was thinking about decoration but I decided that this is exactly what was going to happen.

There were moodboards, colour palettes, late-night browsing for linens and candle holders.

I glorified in the responsibility of gathering amazon wish-lists full of table cloths, napkins, seeking old jars in my home that we could use for candles and flowers.

We cleaned down her garden table and added it to the end of her current dining one. Covered it with a redish-pink checkered table cloth. We had gone flower shopping the day before and so I arranged bouquets which even included parts of a berry tree a neighbour was pruning that weekend.

After every candle was lit.
Flowers watered.
Place mats placed.
Plates, knives and forks distributed.
Bowls of olives and toothpicks on purpose yet casually placed.

I stood back to look at my masterpiece. What a spectacle.

The sun shone through her large London townhouse windows. It was perfect. The atmosphere was beginning to warm. We started placing the salads we’d prepared the day before and dressed them. With each addition to the table - wine bottles, glasses, salads, and the meringue I baked the night before. The table became alive. We had music beating softly through the flat throughout our entire time and honestly, I could of left it there I was so happy.

I finished my pavlova off with a pot of crème fraîche, an abundance of blueberries and raspberries. It was ready.

Strangers I’d never met started to filter through the door bringing gifts of wine and flowers, easter eggs in preparation for the egg hunt we had planned. We poured them our homemade cocktail, the conversation started flowing, we shared stories, laughter, with each hour we grew tipsy and warm.

All this time the food we spent so hard preparing was roasting in the oven. Then it was time to serve.

A few large serving spoons and everyone helped themselves.

By 3:30pm we were sat, passing gravy, pouring drinks, talking over one another. All of us gesturing and commenting on how wonderful it all tasted.

“Jas this is GREAT”
“Where did you get this table cloth” - (amazon)
“How’d you cook the chicken?”

Hours passed at the table, going up for seconds, returning to our conversations and giggles.

It was, by every measure, a success.

On the train home - full, slightly drunk, deeply content, I thought about how simple it all was, really.

Food. Drink. People.

And yet, when brought together with care, it became more than the sum of its parts.

I came up with the idea for this article as I was expressing to Jas over the final moments of the day how much I enjoyed putting her dinner party together. To which she replied “I know, it’s such a lost art - Dinner Parties.”

I was excited to write an article on the indulgence of linens, candle holders, colours and clinks of glasses. They are part of the ritual, and whilst those things are not to be discarded…

It’s not what it’s really about.

The real reason we need dinner parties now more than ever is simpler, and far more urgent:

Connection.

Not passive, distracted, surface-level interaction.

Intimate sharing and love. Done in a way that shows care, and offering.

Intentional and generous connection.

Bringing your friends together.

A table, thoughtfully laid.

Food prepped with instruction and intent.

Closing the doors to the outside for an afternoon to live in a separate bubble. One that cannot be popped by table 7’s kids screaming or table 14’s complaints.
Just you, your space, the love it distributes and people who make it all work worth-while.