One thing that I have found in our almost six months of not eating out is that one challenge naturally sparks many others. I could’ve assumed this would happen, but the daunting idea of cooking three meals a day for a whole year, like I’m some sort of pioneer woman, was overwhelming enough—I just needed to focus on one objective at a time.
But I knew that I would eventually challenge myself (or force myself) to host more in our home. A grill out with friends, spaghetti night with my in-laws, a brunch to connect new friends in person—I had to do it. The only problem was hosting really intimidates me and if I’m being honest, I’m coming out of a phase where I was insecure about our home—enter a new challenge.
Growing up in the South, there is very much a right way to host and a wrong way to host. We polish silver for our tailgates, we eat on fine China just because, and once when I was in the Mississippi Delta on a photoshoot for work, I was offered a glass of water to wet my whistle in a Waterford Crystal Highball, because they simply didn’t own anything plastic. Those standards can leave a lot of us southern women to feel like we are teetering on a line of failure, or God forbid, being tacky. I’ve also been blessed with the opportunity to work in the field of interior design for the last decade. And that can bring about a whole other level of hosting anxiety, even before the pressures of social media.
I hear it all the time, “I’m hosting a party in September, so I need to redo my whole den.” “I’m hosting a baby shower and now I simply hate every pillow I own.” Even our dorm rooms have made national news on the style and opulence of a southern woman’s space.
But if we only ever have friends over (or not over) because of how our home looks, I think we’ve completely missed the point. My husband and I love our home. I knew it was ours the moment I walked into it, not based on how it looked in bare bones, but because of how it felt. The way the sun sets to the right of the backyard and throws an orange glow onto my kitchen floor through the windows, the jack-and-jill bathroom I now chase my son through to get him into the bathtub, how I knew I would be able to see my child play in the backyard from any spot in my kitchen. Our home is builder grade, small, very ordinary. Nothing fancy that would go viral on Instagram and nothing much to gawk at, but it’s ours. (And I don’t mean to brag, but we are locked into a 1.7 interest rate soooooo) It’s the home I’ve mourned all our losses in, it’s the home we share with our son, it’s the place where all the knots in our shoulders unwind when we turn in the driveway. Most days, it’s covered in dog hair, popcorn crumbs, and our main bathroom needs some serious renovating. But it is ours.
About three-ish years ago for lots of different reasons, everyone in our lives got house upgrades. I could name two dozen couples who moved into more square feet, added on, remodeled their kitchen, put in a pool, or built their dream home—and we just didn’t. Life got in the way and once we did have the opportunity to move for more space, we didn’t take it. So, for a while, I would lay in bed each night scrolling IG or TikTok and see the insides of other people’s homes. Woah. The kitchens, the bathrooms, the sprawling spaces. It can leave you feeling like you’ve absolutely done something wrong and like your own home, where you raise your babies and break bread, isn’t good enough. I was also on heaping doses of hormones at the time and was an overall horrible human. Throw in a mix insecurity from internet comparison with fertility drugs and I was just plum awful.
The summer of 2023 was not exactly the summer of love if you catch my drift.
At the beginning of the year when I knew we would start our no eat out challenge, I yearned for something deeper, not just food, not just recipes, but a grander sense of truly living in our home—I wanted to fall in love with my kitchen again. I wanted to appreciate our home for the shelter it provides, not the things it displays. Last weekend I hosted a handful of friends and my sweet Mama for great conversation and a light afternoon lunch. We enjoyed each other’s company, shared secrets and jokes, and enjoyed an afternoon of just being.
At the end of each month on social media I share the lesson I’ve learned that month about not eating out, and once again the lesson has nothing to do with food. May’s lesson is that having enough, is good enough. Not much in this life needs to be opulent or over the top, having enough is good enough. If you’ve been holding off on having folks over to your house because you don’t think it holds up to the impossible standards of what you see online, do it anyway. Have your children’s friends over for a playdate. The sound of children’s laughter echoing through your home will be way better than fine china. Host your old friend’s from college when they are in town. Break bread at your table, no matter the size. Make a memory.
From my heart to yours,
Bailey