Dear Mom, How Do I Host?

Making space for beauty, warmth, and whomever walks through the door.

There’s a moment, right before the doorbell rings, when every hostess asks herself the same silent question: Is this going to work?

I’ve asked it in every house I’ve ever lived in — from my first little starter home to this big, drafty old place that practically begs for a party. And here’s what I’ve learned after years of hosting everything from baby showers to artist dinners to Thursday-night suppers with “just a few neighbors”:

It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to feel good.

When I taught my first hosting masterclass at The Truitt House, I realized almost everyone walks in the door carrying the same worries I used to carry myself.
What if I forget something? What if it’s not fancy enough? What if people don’t enjoy themselves?

But hosting well isn’t about perfection — it’s about intention. It’s choosing a few things that matter, doing them well, and letting the rest be human.

Here’s what I shared that night, and what I want every new hostess to know:

Start by imagining yourself as a guest.
Walk through your own front door in your mind. Is there a place to put a bag? Does it smell welcoming? Can people figure out where to go without asking? If you can answer those three things, you’re already ahead.

Set the bar — literally — before anyone arrives.
A self-serve cocktail (or mocktail) is the secret to being a guest at your own party. My go-to is a whiskey sour, pre-batched and chilled, with sparkling water and a non-alcoholic option close by. A good hostess never leaves the non-drinkers holding a sad glass of tap water.

Keep the food simple and generous.
A pot of something bubbling, a roast chicken resting on the counter, a big salad with homemade dressing — people remember how they felt, not how many components were on the plate.

And the table?
Make it beautiful, yes, but don’t let it boss you around. Mix your patterns, use the good glasses, put the napkins on the plate if you want to. A table should feel like an invitation, not an audition.

The truth is, hosting is a muscle. You build confidence by doing it — and by giving yourself grace along the way. Some nights everything flows. Some nights the dog barks, the bread burns, and someone shows up an hour early.

But every gathering is a chance to love people well, to make them feel seen and welcomed, and to remind yourself that the world is better when we sit down together.

So here’s my best advice, straight from the masterclass and from a lifetime of practicing this art:
Light the candles. Turn on the music. Open the door.
Everything else, dear one, we can fix along the way.

— Kristy