By Sophia Martinson

A few weeks ago, I finally gave my parents their Christmas gift.

The delay wasn’t due to extreme laziness, forgetfulness, or rebellion; it was because of the type of gift. This year, for our first Christmas as a married couple, my husband and I decided to give each of our parents the gift of a home-cooked dinner date. We all love being at home, and we all love our date nights, so the idea was a big hit.

Of course, once spring hit, so did COVID-19. Needless to say, plans got pushed back. For my parents, our original plan was to give them a getaway weekend so that they could enjoy a meal in our cozy one-bedroom and a night’s stay in New York City. But when we found a mid-March weekend visit to their home in northern Virginia extended indefinitely, we decided to seize the moment. Without the spectacle of our new city neighborhood, the meal itself would take center stage. After a string of dining room dinners already under our belts, I wanted to make this one extra special.

Growing up, I always enjoyed spending time in the kitchen: watching my mom cook, nibbling on cheese and crackers at family party, or whipping up concoctions both new and old. The life of the kitchen always brings a sense of comfort and satisfaction. Walking in the door and getting hit with the scent of sautéed onions, bolognese sauce, or roasted potatoes simply exudes the phrase, “Welcome home.” And on any given night, placing a heaping platter in the midst of hungry faces sparks the pleasant sensation that you’ve fulfilled an essential duty.

These rhythms and rituals are special in their own right. So how can a home-cooked dinner in the midst of hundreds of others be turned into a memorable gift? It turns out, serving up a singular dining experience isn’t difficult, and in fact, it brings a particular joy.

It’s safe to say that most of us who have been to a family reunion barbecue or a neighborhood potluck dinner can agree to this: much more than the pleasure of flavors and feeling nourished, the greatest joy of cooking and eating comes from bringing people together. We bond with loved ones in all sorts of settings, but there’s something about gathering around homemade food that fosters a particular intimacy. Why? While the impressiveness of a dish can play a role, it is very much a secondary one. The real secret ingredient is the intention behind that dish — not just to satisfy others but to create for them a pleasant experience.

We see this in our favorite restaurants — the ones we can’t wait to revisit post-quarantine. Besides delicious food, they provide a welcoming ambience, attentive service, and appealing platter arrangements. These things are what make us as guests walk away feeling not just satisfied but special.

Happily, we can create that exact same experience at home. It doesn’t require a big budget; just some tender, loving care.

When my husband and I set up my parents’ dining room for the dinner date, there were a few details we made sure were in place. We dimmed the lights, lit a candle, and set the table for four with the fine china. I arranged the cloth napkins with an elegant fold I’d learned from a YouTube video years back, and we flipped on some smooth dinner music.

As for the food itself, my tactic was once again to let my intention (not my ambition) drive my decisions. Since the primary goal was thoughtfulness rather than extravagance, the questions going into my menu selection did not need to be, “What’s the fanciest, most difficult dish I can pull off?” or “What’s the most expensive thing I can make without breaking the bank?” Instead, the questions in my head sounded more like this: “What kind of food have my parents not had in a while?” “Is there a food they haven’t tried that they’d really like?” “What are their favorite dessert flavors?” With these questions (and without the pressure of embarking on a Julia Child impossibility), I could easily find several simple yet elegant recipes that I knew I’d love to cook and that my parents and husband would love to eat. Thus, the menu consisted of Italian food (a nod to my dad’s heritage and our honeymoon destination) — starting with a doable yet delicious arancini (a favorite of ours and a first for them), followed by spaghetti, greens, and veal marsala (recipe on the back of the cooking wine bottle), and finishing with almond cakes (one of their favorites).

After a great meal and a great conversation, it was clear that our dinner gift had been a memorable one — not because of any special talent on our part but because of the time and thought that we put into the gift. This kind of gift, we found, was one of the most joyous to give, because we could see how special it made my parents feel.

There are all sorts of good reasons to throw on an apron and hit the kitchen (especially nowadays, as many an Instagram profile will tell you). Often it’s out of necessity, and sometimes it’s in order to clear one’s mind and fill the house with therapeutic aromas. But other times — in my opinion, the times when home kitchen chefs shine the most — it’s simply to offer a present or a pick-me-up to a loved one.

Much like a handwritten note or a handmade craft, a home-cooked treat communicates to its recipient, “You matter to me. I spent time thinking of you and making this because I wanted to make you happy.”

In a world of selfies and short attention spans, that means something.

Occasionally dropping these little gems into others’ lives keeps life bright and exciting, both for ourselves and for others. It reminds us that we are loved, that we know people in our lives whom we love and for whom we want to express appreciation. The joy of cooking a gift — or making any homemade gift, for that matter — comes from the refreshing act of spending time and effort outside of ourselves and for others. It’s the secret of finding joy in self-giving, and it’s a secret that turns something as ordinary as dinnertime into something extraordinary.

Sophia Martinson is a writer whose work has appeared in USA Today, Angelus News, Verily Magazine, The New Criterion, and The Washington Examiner. Sophia worked as an editorial assistant at The Weekly Standard and then as a research assistant in education policy at the American Enterprise Institute in Washington, DC. She currently lives in New York City with her husband.