The Art of Making People Feel Welcome

I think hospitality begins before anyone ever sits down at the table.

It begins with the decision to open your door.

It is surprisingly easy to get caught up in the details of having people over—the meal, the table, the house, whether everything is just right—and forget the most important part: the people standing on the other side of the door.

Good hospitality is really about making people feel welcome.

Seen. Heard. Cared for. Comfortable enough to stay awhile.

My mom taught me much of what I know about this. She had a sweet way of welcoming people into our home that made them want to linger. There was always room for one more, and somehow people never seemed in a hurry to leave.

I think that stayed with me.

Hospitality Doesn't Have to Be Complicated

I love a dinner party, but hospitality doesn't have to mean an elaborate meal.

Invite someone for lunch. Make breakfast. Have a friend over for coffee or tea. Put together a game night or a movie night. Invite people into the backyard.

Sometimes hospitality is simply an invitation that says, Come over. I'd love to see you.

And if you've ever talked yourself out of having people over because the house isn't perfect, the menu isn't planned, or you don't have much to offer, start anyway.

You don't need a perfect house or an elaborate meal.

You need an open door, something to share, and a willingness to make room for someone else.

We all have to start somewhere.

The Little Things Matter

When people arrive at our house, I want them to feel taken care of right away.

I'll usually get them something to drink pretty quickly—sometimes I'll set up a little drink station, and sometimes I'll simply hand them something as they walk through the door.

I like the house to smell good, whether that's dinner cooking, cookies in the oven, or a candle burning. There is usually music playing softly in the background.

Depending on what we're doing, I'll set the table or pull out a few dishes that make an ordinary meal feel a little more special. I might layer a couple of pieces together, add cloth napkins, and put something living in the middle—a few flowers, a branch from the yard, or even a plant.

I also ask about allergies and food intolerances, especially when I'm getting to know someone.

These things aren't about impressing anyone.

They're little ways of saying, I thought about you before you arrived.

The More the Merrier

One of my favorite kinds of gatherings is when everyone ends up staying longer than expected.

There are full glasses of something good, candles lit, music playing, and food on the table—crispy potatoes, grilled meat, a salad, and dessert that seems to last forever because everyone is too busy talking to finish it.

People tell stories. We catch up. We cheer each other on.

The children are nearby, seeing all of it happen.

Eventually dinner becomes lingering. Lingering becomes a game or another conversation. Someone gets a cup of coffee.

This is the part I love most.

Not whether the potatoes were perfect.

Not whether every dish matched.

The feeling that no one is in a hurry to leave.

And if someone brings an unexpected guest?

The more the merrier.

I have always tried to plan for a little more than we need. Leftovers are never a bad thing, and there is something wonderful about having enough to make room for another person.

You Don't Need More Money. You Need an Open Door.

I think one of the biggest misconceptions about hospitality is that it requires money.

It doesn't.

I've had years when we had very little, and we still had people over.

When my husband and I were newly married, hospitality might have looked like popcorn, a bottle of wine, and a movie in our little home.

It was enough.

Because hospitality isn't really about what you serve.

It's about the heart behind it.

You can offer someone iced tea and a comfortable chair. You can make coffee and sit with a friend at the kitchen table. You can throw a few burgers on the grill and invite the neighbors over.

The point is that you made room.

What I Hope People Remember

When people leave our home, I hope they remember a joyful time.

I hope they felt seen and heard. I hope they laughed. I hope they felt comfortable enough to stay longer than they planned.

Maybe they'll remember the food or the music or the crystal glasses.

I'll take that.

But what I really hope they remember is that they were welcome here.

Because that, to me, is the art of hospitality.

Not creating a perfect evening.

Creating a place where people feel like they belong.