Literary Hospitality
I have recently become re-obsessed with Ina Garten or, as she is better known, The Barefoot Contessa.
I first encountered her in 2008. I was newly married, and every day after work, I would stop by the gym on my way home to ride the elliptical for 30 minutes. And while I rode, I watched The Barefoot Contessa. I didn’t really grow up cooking, so the experience was an education for me. Ina Garten taught me how to roast tomatoes. She mentored me in the art of seasoning food. She made cooking less daunting by inviting me into her kitchen.
Almost 17 years after that crash course, I listened to her memoir, Be Ready When the Luck Happens, and the warmth of her voice took me right back to those elliptical days. So, as soon as I finished her book, I went back to her television show. I started at the beginning and have been making my way through each episode.
And in this second rewatch, it strikes me that Ina Garten understands something important about food: Food is a means of connection. Every time she cooks or bakes something on her show, she invites her real-life friends and neighbors over to enjoy it with her. She isn’t just cooking food for the sake of cooking food. She’s using her skills to show care.
The more I watch and listen, the more parallels I see between the art of cooking for others and the art of putting our words into the hands of readers. This is a non-exhaustive list, but here are a few principles of Ina Garten’s kind of hospitality that I think we can apply to our own writing:
Writing should make readers feel at home.
The kind of writing that we share with others should feel like an invitation; it should fling open the door to our lives and ask our readers to make themselves at home.
There is vulnerability in this. Just a few days ago, I invited a family over for dinner who had never been to our home before and who we are only just getting to know. I’m sure you can predict what came next: frantic cleaning. I tore around the main living spaces of our house and tried to make it all as presentable as possible before I finally reminded myself that real people live in my home. I can never make it something it is not, so I left a pile of papers on the counter where the piles of papers go. I left a basket of unfolded laundry in the family room. I left the doors to my kids’ rooms open even though they could have used a few more hours of organizing.
In her early episodes of The Barefoot Contessa, Ina Garten will often call a neighbor and ask her to pop over to help test a new recipe. I know it’s all staged, but I am inspired by the concept of inviting someone into the real process of my life. It says, “I haven’t worked it all out yet, but I’d love for you to be a part of it.”
These same principles apply to our writing, I think. Our words should subtly say to our readers, “Please come in.” And then once they’re inside, those words should feel real and honest. They shouldn’t be shined-up versions of reality. Our writing should make our readers feel right at home in our actual lives as they are actually happening.
Writing should be done with care.
My friend Kelly is allergic to chocolate, so when her family comes over for dinner, I make lemon cheesecake for dessert. My sister-in-law doesn’t eat meat, so when I host Jake’s family for dinner, I make sure there is a vegetarian option. Kids don’t tend to be too excited about beef bourguignon, so I make them a big pan of chicken nuggets and French fries to eat instead (which, thankfully leaves more stew for the grown-ups).
Ina Garten makes a lot of chicken recipes because her husband, Jeffrey, loves chicken. Similarly, she’s always thinking about what will be best for a crowd, what’s in season, and what foods might not go over so well.
Similarly, I think our writing must acknowledge that not everyone shares our same appetites, opinions, and experiences.
To be clear, we cannot and should not try to write for everyone. But when we tell our stories, we should consider the way other people—those with different family dynamics and life circumstances—might encounter our words. I can’t change my stories, but I can tell them with care and empathy and an understanding that my perspective isn’t the only way to look at things.
Writing should be engaging.
I can’t be the only one who has attended a dinner party that felt like it would never end, can I? Or one where I arrived starving only to find out that dinner wasn’t even close to being ready?
In her memoir, Ina Garten tells a story about one of the first dinner parties she and her husband hosted. She decided to make omelettes for everyone which meant she was in the kitchen the entire night making dinner plates one at a time, while Jeffrey struggled to keep conversation moving in the dining room. The whole thing was a bit of a disaster.
When we bring people into our homes, it’s important that we find ways to keep them engaged, and the same goes for our writing. We don’t want to be click-baity about it, but we need to give people a reason to care. Attention is limited these days. So if someone is taking the time to read our words, we have a responsibility to engage them with compelling and specific details, meaningful takeaways, and thoughtful reflection. No one wants to be bored in a story. Maybe you can’t leave a dinner party, but you can click out of an essay just as fast as you opened it.
Writing should fill readers up.
Nobody leaves Ina Garten’s house hungry. In the very first episode of her show, she makes a meal plan for her friend: salt and pepper crusted steak, sautéed mushrooms, and fried onion rings. She doesn’t stop with a simple amuse-bouche. She’s putting three courses in front of her friends and sending them home full.
We have an opportunity to fill our readers up as well. We have an opportunity to make them feel seen, known, encouraged, and loved—to send them back into their lives a little better off than they were before they came to our words. Maybe we make them laugh. Maybe we make them think about something in a new way. Maybe we make them feel less alone by our willingness to write about something difficult.
Readers shouldn’t leave our words feeling empty or depleted. They should feel buoyed and lifted up.
How easy is that?
At least once every episode, Ina Garten looks directly into the camera after she has plated something delicious and says, “How easy is that?”
Now, I would never tell you that writing is easy. Tending our words with care and vulnerability requires hard work and a willingness to show up again and again. But when it comes to the principles of literary hospitality, I actually do think they are pretty simple:
Invite people in.
Care about them while they’re there.
Send them away full.
To steal another quote from Ina Garten: “Cooking is one of the great gifts you can give to those you love.”
The same can be said about writing, don’t you think?
Creative Exercises:
Write about your perfect dinner party. What would you serve? Who would you invite? How would you set the table? Then think about this: Which of those plans also transfer over to your creative life? How can you infuse your writing with those pieces of your in-home hospitality?
Look closely at a recent essay or poem you have written. Have you made your readers feel at home within it? Does it make your readers feel welcome and engaged? Would anyone read your words and feel isolated or unseen? Have you invited readers along a journey with you or will they lose interest along the way? Are there any changes to be made in light of the idea of literary hospitality?