"This is life," my grandmother said to me after we hosted six friends for dinner and dessert. Amid the normal banter and chatter of logistics and reviewing the night, her comment stood out as something to pay attention to. It was significant.

Having people over, eating together, sharing a good time, and raising our collective energy through connection — this is life.

Prepping for the evening was stressful — a small kitchen, several pies to make, and work to juggle alongside it all. The task itself may not have been too hard objectively, but making three different kinds of pies for eight people was a new challenge for me.

While the day was stressful, it was all worth it. Seeing the smiles on everyone's faces, the surprise at the amount of food, the sweet goodbyes as we sent friends off with even more pie—it all made for a memorable evening. The happiness was palpable.

The evening started with your basic snacks — sea-salt vinegar and truffle chips, sliced Persian cucumbers and hummus, olives, and cornichons. Laid out on the table was Chekhov's gun — four baked pies, two apple and two prune, American and Swiss classics respectively. I playfully admonished each guest — there is one rule: all the food has to be eaten, whether or not it's all tonight.

As friends arrived, we gathered around the large L-shaped couch to chit-chat — switching between sound bites in French and English as we talked about our days. Grandma stole the show sharing her stories about living in Iran for 15 years and the struggle to escape the revolution, ultimately expatriating to California.

We moved to the dining table as Grandma served her special tahchin — a Persian rice dish made with yogurt, saffron, and baked in a way that creates the perfect tahdig (the crispy rice, the best part of the dish). Instead of the traditional large platter, she made personalized tahchins, each portion baked in its own rectangular baking pan and served on a plate.

Friends weren't expecting a lavish meal — but when Grandma insisted, I told them to come hungry, and for good reason. Once dinner was finished, we moved onto the first course of pies — the banana cream pie. There was fear in the guests' eyes — they'd already eaten a lot — but a bit of cultural insistence was enough to get them to go for the pie. The success was in their reactions — shock at the deliciousness.

We concluded with another round of pies — the apple and prune, small slices accompanied by homemade miso caramel — alongside Persian tea spiced with cardamom. We still had so much pie leftover — so I covertly took the uncut pies to the kitchen, sliced them, and, with Grandma's help, assembled to-go slices for friends to take home with them. There was only one rule after all, and I was the enforcer.

It made me so happy to feed my friends. If I were to give feedback to myself, I was a bit absent and aloof as a host. I could've been more participatory in conversation, maybe crafted some games or conversation starters, given a bit more direction and flow to the evening. But for the mood and state I was in, playing the busy bee host around serving and seeing my friends having a good time was enough. It was the best goodbye party I could ask for.

I've declared being a good host as one of my life goals. Sometimes it's hard to host with limited means or space. One thing I feel a pang of regret for is not having more people over, more often, because former living situations didn’t allow for regular and easy hosting. But that regret is an indicator—a compass, guiding me to continue hosting, to bring people together, to curate spaces for such experiences.

This is life. The simple joys of gathering, eating, sharing laughs, and deepening friendships through shared experiences. This is life.