Hospitality

When we built Park Place, the house where we lived before our current one, part of the design excitement was due to the detached guest unit. Except we called it “the cottage” because “detached guest unit” doesn't have the same charm. The cottage had a separate, natural stone entry and stairway, blue cabinets, a darling black-and-white heart shaped shower tile, and floor to ceiling windows. The cottage was a must when we designed the house, I decided, because I thought I’d love to host strangers.

“We could totally Airbnb it!” I said to Jeremy. This is going to be amazing!!!!!!”

Give me all the exclamation points. You see, I was under the delusion that hospitality was my thing. I had it in my head that I absolutely loved to host friends and family and even random people at my home. 

Our guest cottage at Park Place

When I was young, I stayed in my Aunt Colleen’s guest room in San Diego a few times. The mattress was supremely comfortable, the sheets were satin-soft, and the guest shower was one of those cool, open-air ones with pebble stones on the shower pan and an overhead rain shower head. She always wanted her guests to feel comfortable and cared for, and this was something she excelled at doing. She didn’t just provide beautiful accommodations, either, she always went out of her way to be a great hostess and welcome people into her life. Whenever I visited, she’d take me sightseeing or on her favorite hike, and she’d make really interesting dinners and desserts. One time, she made bananas foster and lit the dish on fire. I was so impressed. I remember thinking I’d love to make people feel like that, too—at home and even delighted in my home.  

Me and Aunt Colleen

Before I visited Aunt Colleen, my vision of hospitality was that when guests came, you’d maybe throw a blanket over the couch or prep a blow-up mattress somewhere. Guests certainly didn’t have their own open-air showers, for heaven’s sake. They were lucky to not have to pay for room and board. Of course, any time anyone opens their homes, the guest should respond with gratitude, even if it is a couch. Still, I never imagined there were people able and willing to make sure you had a top-notch guest experience. As an adult, I got to thinking that I’d love to provide this kind of experience for my friends and family, sure, but why not everyone else too? Why not make a full-blown business out of it to delight and dazzle the whole world??

I have small dreams.

Before we moved into Park Place, I spent the better part of a year trying to convince my husband that we should renovate a ski-in, ski-out duplex on the mountain so I could rent it out. I had plans to decorate it cozy-like with flannel sheets and antler chandeliers with silver accents. We’d put a hot tub out back and book it up. You know, to be hospitable. I envisioned meeting people from all over, bringing them hot chocolate and cookies while they skied. A pot of chili would be warming on the stove. The whole works. We’d block out nights for extended family to come up and it would be this wonderful life of meeting people and making friends.

The problem is…

I don’t like people?

I mean, in a general sense, I do. I like mankind. I like my family and close friends. But if I actually have to meet other people—like for coffee or lunch or happy hour—I don’t want to. People are the worst.

And so, the reality of my guest-unit situation at Park Place went something like this: I got the thing all cute, put it on Airbnb and offered it to family, and and then inevitably, someone said they were coming. It was then that my mind protested.

Please, no.

Mostly, anyway. Sometimes I loved having certain guests. Kathi Ayres, for example—my brother-in-law’s mom, is an incredible guest. But not everyone is like Kathi. Not everyone is so low-key. In fact, some people who rent on AirBnB, are straight-up doing it to socialize with you, the host, personally. I swear. They make a reservation, chat with you back and forth on e-mail, and even ship things to your house—like skies, which means you have to meet up with them at some point to deliver them. Then, they suggest that maybe our families could hang out one night so they could pick our brains about Steamboat’s school system. 

Now, listen. Let me tell you how much Jeremy MacGray wants to meet random people asking about our school system. And how do I feel? You already know. It got to a point that anytime someone booked our little cottage, a little voice inside whimpered, “oh, no. It requires too much energy.”

This even happened with people I love. My initial reaction is usually the same: Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

Here is the extraordinary thing that happens when someone comes to visit though: after the hello’s are done and the guest has arrived, I always feel so much better. Like built up pressure has been released. Much better than if nobody had come at all. Have you heard the writer’s adage, “I don’t love to write but I love having written”? It’s like that. I might think I don’t want to host, but I love having hosted. Something deep inside draws me to hosting, even as another part of me rejects it. The thing that draws me overrides the rejection, and I’m so glad it does, because hospitality is the practice of putting aside your own comfort for the sake of another. Our culture often tells us the opposite—to put ourselves first for the sake of our own health and sanity. We’re told that our comfort and a guest’s comfort can’t coincide. It’s true that true hospitality often requires the sacrifice of self in some form. Though my initial reaction may be “oh no,” after the initial hello’s and hugs and travel questions, I settle in and my role becomes ensuring my guests comfort and welcome. My comfort comes from knowing I am doing what is good, right, and true, regardless of how I feel initially.

The thing I try to remember is that my initial reaction is not the boss. Initial reactions are like fear; you never let them drive. Instead, you ask yourself: Is this thing worthy? Does it bring value to my life and others? Is it good? Is it right? Is it lovely? Because if the answer is yes, the answer is yes.

And so, I try and practice hospitality. Sometimes it’s easy and a joy, and sometimes I panic and think, “oh no.” But I practice overriding the feelings of dread and throwing open my doors and lighting desserts on fire anyway because it really does bring lasting joy.

Although, here is a pro tip. Learn from me. If you are also an introvert and your initial reaction is also “oh no,” and hospitality requires sacrifice—maybe consider not making a whole Airbnb business out of it, yeah? Maybe just stick to people you actually know unless you hear of someone in need and then yeah, host them too. (“Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares” Hebrews 13:2)

And if you invest in a big, comfortable mattress for them, and soft sheets and thick towels and show that their comfort and delight is important to you—If you welcome them into your life with thoughtful touches like candles and cut flowers on the night stand, and if you take them on hikes and make them showy desserts—well. Bonus points. Your life will be all the richer for having done it.

Aunt Colleens Bananas Foster for Company, circa 1996

Serves 4

If you have an electric range, all that’s keeping you from making this dish is long matches. I only make this using long matches, so if you buy them on Amazon, you’ll make this for everyone you host for the next year. Promise. If lighting the skillet on fire scares you, look up a YouTube video of someone making bananas foster so you can see it’s not a scary as it seems.

Ingredients:

1 pint vanilla ice cream

3 large bananas

1/4 cup water (or banana liqueur if you’re fancy)

1/2 cup dark rum

6 tablespoons unsalted butter

1/4 cup light brown sugar, packed

1/2 teaspoon cinnamon

Quarter bananas by cutting them both lengthwise and then crosswise. Measure water or banana liqueur and rum and place next to your skillet. This dessert comes together very quickly and needs to be made at the last minute, so everything must be pre-measured before you begin cooking. Heat 3 tablespoons of the butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Sprinkle sugar and cinnamon over butter and cook over medium heat, stirring, until sugar is dissolved. Remove from heat. Stir in water (or banana liquor, if using), then add the banana slices flat side down. Put back over the heat and cook until lightly browned on bottom. Remove from heat and add the rum. Return to the heat and cook for 10 seconds to warm everything through. If using a gas stove, turn the skillet away from you so the vapors ignite—alternately, stick a long match into the skillet to ignite the top and stand back. When the flames subside, remove pan from heat and stir in remaining butter. Spoon those delicious caramelized bananas over vanilla ice cream.