There’s a certain serendipity that happens at a potluck. Foods that have never mingled together find themselves side by side: jambalaya in a crockpot, a cardboard pizza box, a plastic tub of Trader Joe’s hummus, a platter of gluten-free brownies. None of it really makes sense when scooped together onto a plate, but all of the flavors blend like fast friends—and if you’re lucky, oftentimes, the people do, too.

It’s another Monday night, which for me, means another neighborhood potluck. Every week, a group of us meets in the same grassy area by the bay in our neighborhood outside of Providence, Rhode Island. This week, I brought a pesto pasta salad with random veggies I found in our fridge; last week, it was leftover ribs my husband made over the weekend; the week before, a bag of chips and salsa. As we set up shop on a foldout table, I can see the curious faces of people driving and biking by, wondering what the heck is going on. But for us, it’s just another Monday night. People start trickling in around 5:30pm and stay until the sun goes down. We catch up on each other’s lives, and watch the kids run around while helping ourselves to a second plate. Then, we pack up our things and say our goodbyes, knowing we’ll see each other again next week.

While these gatherings now feel like a staple in my life, I first learned the magic of weekly potlucks a few years ago, in my old neighborhood in New Orleans, Louisiana. It was 2022, and we were still feeling a bit socially raw, fresh out of our Covid bubbles. A neighbor friend started a group text, inviting us to gather every Monday at the playground for a whatever-you-have-lying-around potluck dinner and a good hang.

At first, the weekly cadence sounded like… a lot. Weekly? Really? Could my social battery handle it?

Yet after the first few months, it started feeling like an important ritual, and after the first year, it felt like a sacred space. The regular cadence was key. It allowed us to check in on each other and get to know our week-to-week rhythms. I could ask how Jen’s doctor’s appointment went last week, or if Joel had recipe-tested the chicken and dumplings he was planning for his upcoming popup restaurant. When I wanted someone to be my accountability-buddy to do that yoga class I kept swearing I’d do, I could ask if anyone else had been looking for an accountability-buddy, too. And with the standing weekly gatherings, all of this could happen in an intentional way, our commitment to a weekly meal slowly blossoming into something more.