In early January, I read about a couple who vowed to host a dinner party every week throughout 2025. Somehow, they did it — all 52 of them. The dinners ran the gamut, from fancy to simple. They had all sorts of positive takeaways from the experience.

I admired them.

But I also knew that this wasn’t the year for me to host weekly dinner parties. I might love it, but even floating the idea might push my husband over the edge. For him, a dinner party every week sounds less like hospitality and more like a hostage situation.

Still, the idea stuck with me — not the frequency, but the intention. It’s a decision to make gathering people around a table part of the structure of a year, rather than something that happens only when conditions are perfect.

So I made a quieter vow. In 2026, I want to host at least one dinner party a month.

Thus far, I’m coming in strong — two in January, with another already on the calendar for mid-February. These dinner parties are nothing heroic (beyond the chile rellenos my husband made for the first one, which pushed his culinary skills to hero status). They are not ready for an influencer’s flashy and polished Instagram feed. They are simply people gathered round our big table, passing plates hand to hand.

Over time, I’ve learned a few things about myself as a host. One is that, for right now, eight people around a table — my former gold standard — is a bridge too far. Six is the sweet spot for now. Conversation is easier, and it’s enough without being exhausting.

Another is that the real pleasure, for me, is in the mix.

I love bringing together people who haven’t met but whom I suspect would have plenty to talk about if given the chance. It is the opposite of networking. It’s more like matchmaking (and truth be told, I really want to be a professional matchmaker in my next life).

Watching a conversation find its footing — and people connect — is one of my favorite parts of the evening. I work toward politeness giving way to curiosity around my table.

As I’m writing this, tonight we are hosting a Croatian-themed dinner party.

I’ve never been to Croatia. It’s on my list, but for now, it exists mostly as a place of coastlines I want to explore, a complicated history and food I’ve only encountered on the internet.

As it turns out, no one who will be sitting around the table tonight has been to Croatia either — a detail that felt like a feature, not a flaw.

In preparation, I shared two movies our guests could watch if they wanted — one light and not-so-light about the horrific war of the mid-1990s. I only watched the light one. I’m not up for super-heavy, dark stories right now, and I’ve learned to trust that instinct. Gathering doesn’t require emotional endurance tests.

I also shared a poem: “Star on High” by Tin Ujević, who was from Croatia and is considered one of the great lyric poets of the former Yugoslavia. Translated poetry, I’ve discovered, is a gentle way to gain insight into another culture — imperfect, filtered, but sincere.

I thought one line of Ujević’s poem was particularly beautiful: He loves no less who does not waste his words. There’s plenty to discuss in that line alone.

Never fear, I don’t always assign homework for dinner parties. Sometimes people just show up, and that’s enough. But with our long-running “Year of Countries” monthly dinners with friends, we try to reach beyond the menu. We share a book, a poem, a song, a film, a dance, a television show — something that gives us more than talking points about what we’re eating.

It’s merely a shared reference point. An invitation to pay attention.

What I’ve learned is that hosting doesn’t have to be elaborate to be meaningful. It doesn’t require a theme every time or a perfectly timed menu. It does require intention — the decision to open the door, set the table and make room for conversation to wander where it will.

Tonight we’re not even going to have the whole meal complete when our guests arrive. I’m going to ask them to roll up their sleeves and help me make the gnocchi. I believe that conversation flows best when people are doing something with their hands — not to mention learning something new together. (In full disclosure, I’ve never made gnocchi either. However, I have watched a video. We’ll figure it out, no doubt.)

No, a monthly dinner party won’t change the world. But it might change a year. It creates a rhythm — something to look forward to. It’s a reason to keep saying yes to people when it would be easier to retreat into the glow of a screen and call it rest.

For now, that’s enough of a goal. One table. Six chairs. At least once a month.

I don’t know who will still be sitting at our table by the end of the year.

I do know that I want to keep setting it.